


Fifteen Minutes

by The_Real_Fenris



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack Treated Seriously, Drug Use, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, Happenings, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Modern Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Partying, Pop Art, Sex, Studio 54, Tags May Change, The Factory, Trans Fenris, Underground Cinema, drag kings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-05-26 19:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6252142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Real_Fenris/pseuds/The_Real_Fenris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU. When Alistair comes to Kirkwall to realize his dream of becoming a Broadway star, he gets unwittingly sucked into the decadent underground art scene ruled over by an enigmatic figure known as "The Dread Wolf". And where he meets a bizarre cast of dwarven thugs, drag kings, lotus eaters, and performance sex artists - including one suave, irresistibly sexy elf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to Kirkwall!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [little_abyss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/gifts).



> So, yes. I ran a little contest recently on Tumblr, so I'm writing this for littlexabyss, who supplied this prompt: "Anything based in an art scene of any kind - a bunch of artists and dealers and critics and hangers on who thrive on petty bullshit, gossip and wonderfully degenerate behaviour." 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it. :)

Alistair Theirin, with all his worldly possessions packed neatly in the little suitcase his guardians had given him, stepped off the bus at precisely five o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon.

The bus had picked him up a mile down the road from the farmhouse where he’d grown up, and the ride had been long and tiring. Yet he could feel the excitement bubbling up inside him as he drank in the tall buildings casting long shadows as the bright neon lights flickered to life, and the myriad of unfamiliar scents and sounds of the big city around him.

Kirkwall. The mythical place where all of his hopes and dreams would come true.

Alistair was a young man, but growing up on a farm in a secluded part of Ferelden, he was more naive than most. Determined, he’d worked the fields as a farmhand for one of the wealthier landholders in the area for three summers, meticulously scrimping and saving every copper to make his dreams a reality. Innocently optimistic, he believed that his winsome good looks and his powerful singing voice would suffice to secure him his coveted role as a famous star on Broadway. With his life savings tucked safely away in his right sock, he arrived fully expecting Kirkwall to welcome him in a warm embrace.

It did not.

Alistair had arrived with few plans other than to make it to Kirkwall and become famous. For the immediate future, however, he was hungry and needed a place to stay. Fortunately, his uncle Duncan – who was familiar with Kirkwall – had written to him with the advice of seeking an affordable hotel in the better part of Lowtown.

Alistair inquired at the bus station before heading off. He was certain that he’d understood the directions. However, after a few missed turns, he found himself hopelessly lost in Darktown.

He was robbed by a gang of dwarves before he’d even gone ten blocks.

The leader was the largest of them, wearing an odd-looking crossbow slung over a rather dramatically embellished coat, which was open wide at the throat to reveal an impressive amount of reddish chest hair. Across his lips, a wry grin. “You’re in Carta territory, farm boy,” he announced. “I’m afraid there’s a toll.”

Alistair gripped the suitcase in his hand tighter as he looked down at the dwarves. Even the top of the leader’s head barely reached his chest. _Are they joking?_ Still, Alistair had been raised to be polite to everyone. “A toll?” he asked. “Ah... sorry, but I... well, I don’t have any money to spare.”

The leader smiled. “In that case, farm boy, we’ll be taking the money you _can’t_ spare.”

At his gesture, each man behind him withdrew a deadly-looking knife, and waved it menacingly in Alistair’s direction.

Alistair quickly reevaluated the situation. The dwarves may have been much smaller than him, but they were all armed to the teeth with intent, and he was not. He was definitely outnumbered. And what little experience he’d had with scrapping with the other farmhands was not going to help him here. There was only one reasonable – though rather cowardly – course of action.

Alistair ran.

The hard slap of the soles of his shoes echoed off the cobblestones as he dashed blindly through the streets of Darktown. A quick glance over his shoulder assured him that the thuggish dwarves were hot on his trail. Still, he had the advantage of longer legs, and he was sure he could lose them. The only problem was that he had no idea where he was going. A quick turn around a corner brought him screeching to a halt before a tall, stone wall.

He’d run into a dead end. With no way out except the way he’d come in. Which was now completely sealed off by the advancing gang of toughs.

As the dwarves lumbered forward, Alistair scrambled to retreat. In a moment, his back was pressed against the wall, even as his eyes darted about for some miraculous escape route.

“Now, farm boy,” the leader panted, out of breath. “You shouldn’t have run. I fucking hate running.” Pausing, the dwarf smoothed back his hair as he sucked in a deep breath. “And, as you can see, my associates aren’t too happy with what you just did, so now we’re going to have to hurt you a little.”

Behind him, the gang of dwarves waved their knives about and snarled.

The suitcase thunked against the ground as it slipped from Alistair’s grasp. He quickly held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Uh... I didn’t realize that you disliked exercise so much. Sorry about that. Could we maybe start over and skip the whole ‘hurting me’ part?”

“Too late for that, Blondie,” the leader said, then barked a gleeful order at his gang. “Get him, boys!”

Thus, Alistair Theirin of Ferelden found himself hurt and bleeding, tears streaking down his dusty face, in a dirty alley in Darktown less than fifteen minutes after his arrival in Kirkwall.

\-------------------------------

 _I should probably get up,_ he thought more than once, before he actually managed to act on that impulse.

The dwarves had worked him over pretty good. As he gingerly pulled himself into a sitting position, he was acutely aware of how every part of him ached. At least – as far as he could tell – nothing was broken. Strangely, though, that didn’t make him feel any better.

A few feet away, his suitcase gaped open. After beating him up and taking his money, the dwarves had looted his suitcase for valuables. All around on the dirty ground, his clothes and other possessions lay scattered. Mustering up all his remaining energy, Alistair crawled over the the mess and began to repack his suitcase, not bothering to take the time to refold everything neatly.

Alistair didn’t own much worth stealing. But as he crammed everything back in, he realized that the robbers had stolen one item.

His mother’s amulet.

Alistair felt his heart sink. A foundling, he’d been left as an infant on the porch of the farm. He didn’t know who his parents were. The only hint had been the amulet – a silver emblem of Andraste’s flame – which had been left in the basket. Once – in a fit of anger – he’d thrown it against the wall and broken it. Only he’d found it later on his bed, after someone had carefully glued it back together. He’d felt like such a fool, but he’d vowed to keep it always.

Except now, it was stolen. Gone forever.

With a heavy heart, Alistair clicked the suitcase shut. With some effort he pulled himself to his feet, and made his way, half-staggering, out of the alley.

He didn’t know where he was going. He was only aware that he was in a rather dangerous part of town, and that the intelligent thing to do would be to go somewhere safer. Then he could figure out what to do next.

He wandered somewhat aimlessly for two blocks before he smelled something – the tantalizing aroma of grilled meat, smoky peppers, and hot spices – that made his stomach rumble, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since that morning. Mouth watering, Alistair followed the scent as if hypnotized by it, until he reached a small food cart on a corner. A few small tables with plastic chairs sat on the sidewalk nearby, mostly unoccupied except for the one where three young men sipped sodas out of large waxy cups while waiting for their orders.

The cart itself was large, with counters on three sides, and a gaily-striped awning stamped with the establishment’s name: _Morrigan’s Mysteries._ Along one side, there was a glass case displaying the food wares. Along the other was a space where napkins, straws and condiments were neatly arranged. And along the third was the grill, where a young woman in a low-cut shirt and chopsticks in her loosely knotted dark hair was casually flipping bamboo skewers. As the meat sizzled, the woman glanced up and took note of Alistair.

“Can I help you?”

Drawn by his hunger, Alistair hadn’t even realized how close he’d gotten until the woman – Morrigan, he presumed – had spoken. “Oh! I’d like...” he began, and then remembered. “I’m sorry, but I just got robbed, so I don’t have any money.”

The woman eyed him without a hint of sympathy. “How unfortunate for you,” she said. “But I’m running a business, not a soup kitchen. If you want a handout, go somewhere else.”

 _A handout?_ No, he wasn’t asking for that. He did have some pride. “I’m... ah... sorry,” Alistair sputtered. “I didn’t, ah... mean to...”

Before Alistair could finish his apology and move on, a loud voice boomed out behind him. “Is there a problem here, Morrigan?”

Alistair whirled around. One of the young men from the table now stood behind him. In truth, he hadn’t spared them more than a glance, but now, up close, he got a much better look at the one who had approached him. Looming tall, the interloper wore a red shirt and skinny black tie beneath an elegant pin-stripe suit, with a gangster-style black felt hat cocked stylishly over short dark hair. The piercing grayish eyes and the scar that ran down the strong-boned face sent the message that this was not a person to be trifled with.

Confused, Alistair stared. Whoever this person was, they certainly dressed like a man, but the voice was very feminine in pitch.

“Actually, Cass,” Morrigan said, “there is a problem. This guy thinks I’m running a charity.”

Gold rings flashed on fingers as the person named Cass cracked their knuckles.

 _Maker’s breath. Not more trouble._ Wasn’t anyone in Kirkwall friendly? “What?” Alistair sputtered, trying to back away. “No trouble here. Really. I was on my way.”

Alistair sucked in a breath as Cass advanced, jabbing a finger into his chest. Hard. “An unlikely story,” Cass said. They then barked over their shoulder at their companions. “Krem. Fenris. I think we need to teach this guy a lesson.”

Alistair’s eyes widened. “No, really,” he babbled desperately. “No lesson required. Lesson already learned. Don’t talk to strangers. Or anyone else in Kirkwall. I’ll just go, shall I?”

The other two had approached, and now stood so that Alistair was surrounded. He did a quick assessment of each of them. One was a slim elven man with strange white tattoos uncurling out over light brown skin from under black leather, with thick white hair that fell into angry green eyes. He didn’t look quite as dangerous as the other man. That man looked like a thug – shrewd eyes, a military-style crewcut, and muscles that looked like they would burst through his tight t-shirt if he just flexed hard enough. Unlike with Cass, whose gender confused him, Alistair was moderately certain the newcomers were indeed male.

The man with the muscles threw back his shoulders, thrusting forward his chest. “Look here, pretty boy,” he said in a gruff voice. “Nobody messes with us.”

Alistair wracked his brain, trying to figure out what, exactly, he had done to deserve this. “Ah, listen,” he said, trying to sound reasonable. “It really wasn’t my intention to mess with anyone. And I don’t even know who you people are.”

At that, all three seemed affronted. “You don’t know who we are?” Cass exclaimed. “Preposterous!”

The white-haired man growled. “Everyone knows the Angry Tranny Brigade.”

Even more confused, Alistair blinked. “The Angry Tranny Brigade...?”

Suddenly, the man with the muscles was in Alistair’s face, his finger so close that he was nearly intimate with Alistair’s left nostril. “The fuck you say?” he growled. “Did you just call us _trannies?”_

The unbridled rage which suddenly appeared in all three pairs of eyes did nothing to set Alistair at ease. “But... but I was just repeating what –”

Muscle Man gave Alistair a shove, knocking the words clear of his mouth, and knocking Alistair back a few steps. Cutlery and knives rattled as he crashed into the food cart.

“Nobody calls us trannies except _us,_ asshole,” Muscle Man growled as he advanced menacingly. “You’re going to pay for that. Get him, boys!”

 _Maker... please?_ That was only unspoken prayer Alistair managed to make before the drag king and the two transmen leaped forward and seized him, one locked on each arm, as the third balled up a fist. All of Alistair’s breath gushed out of him with an animal whimper as the well-placed punch slammed into his solar plexus.

Later, as he lay half-broken in the gutter, while the stars spiraled sickeningly across his vision, Alistair was certain that this was the worst day he’d ever had in his entire life.

\-------------------------------

Alistair lay in the gutter for a long time, questioning his life choices.

Eventually he found the strength to move again. Peeling himself up off the street, he lingered on his aching knees for a while. The left one hurt a lot. He had a vague recollection of someone kicking it, and now a quick exploration with his fingers revealed swollen flesh that was exquisitely tender to the touch. He winced and bit back a whimper as he gingerly wobbled back up to his feet.

Suitcase in hand, Alistair limped off down the street.

After a few minutes of walking, he came to a park. Dark shapes of trees blotted out half the sky, which was a deep indigo color now that both moons had risen to join the stars. Spotting an empty park bench nearby, Alistair staggered over to it, then eased himself down. Exhausted, he then stretched out across the bench, resting his head on the hard suitcase he’d set beside him as he huddled deeper into his coat against the encroaching chill.

Tears hot, prickled at the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill.

 _There’s no point in crying,_ he berated himself. _Be a man, Alistair! Men don’t cry!_

Except that it was impossible to hold on to his optimism. He was alone in a strange city, cold and hungry. He’d been beaten up not once, but twice, and now every part of him was bruised and sore. And since they dwarves had taken all his money, he couldn’t afford to pay for a place to sleep, much less eat.

Alistair felt very sorry for himself indeed.

 _Having dreams is stupid,_ Alistair thought as the hot tears slipped from his eyes, already cooling as they streaked down his face. _I should have just stayed in Ferelden._

Of course he didn’t even have a tissue, so he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. However, the tears continued to fall, and he was unable to choke back a little sob, his mouth moving in another silent plea.

_Maker... please send someone to help me..._

No one was coming. Kirkwall was a terrible place. He’d made a terrible mistake.

He choked on another sob.

“Oh, Creators! What’s this?”

It was a woman’s voice he’d heard, light and lyrical, with an unfamiliar accent that was all round vowels, and warm like a kitchen in which bread was baking.

Hastily wiping his tears, Alistair’s muscles screamed at him as he forced himself up in a sitting position. A couple had stopped a few feet away, and were now regarding him curiously.

The owner of the voice was a slender slip of an elf with short dark hair and a pattern of green-ink tattoos that framed her pale face. Beside her, their arms linked, stood another woman, also dark-haired, but she was dark-skinned, with a curvy hourglass figure emphasized by a tightly-ribboned, frilly corset. Both of them wore Victorian-style gowns: yards of brightly-colored satin trimmed in black velvet and lace, adorned with sparkling paste jewelry, with ostentatious feathers tucked into the up-swept coils of their hair. And both women wore burgundy lipstick so dark that their lips in the moonlight almost appeared black.

At least Alistair was moderately certain they were women. After his last encounter, he was afraid to assume _anything_ about the odd denizens of Kirkwall.

The dark-skinned woman arched one thin, perfectly-plucked brow. “He’s sleeping on a park bench, kitten,” she said, her voice all sultry drawl of silk. “I think it’s safe to assume he’s a bum.”

Pale green eyes widened. “Oh, dear, the poor man,” she said with genuine sympathy. Then her gaze became thoughtful. “Strange, though. He doesn’t look like a bum.”

“My name’s Alistair,” he piped up. “Fresh arrival in town. I’m afraid that some dwarves stole my money, so I’ve only been a bum for about an hour, at the most.”

“That still makes you a bum,” the silky-voiced woman said. Then she cocked her head, studying him more closely. “These dwarves – were they with the Carta?”

Alistair paused, thinking. “I... yes, I believe that’s what the leader said.”

“A man with a nice coat, a strange crossbow, and very impressive chest hair?”

Alistair nodded.

“Isabela!” the elf said with dismay. “You told me that Varric wasn’t doing any illegal activities anymore!”

The woman named Isabela shrugged. “Apparently I was wrong.”

Perplexed, Alistair stared at the women as he processed this new information. “Then... it was your friend who stole my money?”

“Friend,” Isabela said. “Hmm. That’s such a loose word. Really, I’d say he’s more of an acquaintance.”

“Isabela,” the elf snapped. “This poor man just had all his money stolen by a friend of ours. We can’t just leave him here like this. He has nowhere to go.”

Indifferent, Isabela lifted a hand, making a show of inspecting her nail polish, which was as dark as her lips. “He’s a grown man, Merrill. I’m sure he can take care of himself.”

Merrill’s lips tightened into a line, as if she’d just tasted something bitter. _“Isabela,”_ she said again, this time with more emphasis.

Isabela dropped her hand. Stared at the elf for a moment. Then, finally, she sighed. “Fine, kitten,” she said softly. “But keep in mind that we can’t take in every stray you find in the park.” Pausing, Isabela let her eyes sweep over Alistair. “Even if he is extraordinarily _pretty.”_

The way she’d said ‘pretty’ – it didn’t quite feel like a compliment. Alistair blinked.

Merrill lit up. “Oh, Isabela!” she cooed. “That’s wonderful!” With a furious rustle of satin, she lunged forward, grabbing Alistair by the arm. He tried not to wince at the myriad of aches and pains that flared and burst through his body as she tugged him up to his feet. “Come along, then, Mister Alistair!” Her wide eyes blinking, she peered sweetly up into his face. “Are you thirsty? Hungry? Need a bath? Don’t worry. We’ll take very good care of you, I promise.”

Alistair was so grateful that he nearly started crying again. “Maker’s breath,” he murmured. “You ladies are angels.”

“Angels? Us?” Isabela laughed, an exquisite flash of pearl-white teeth against dark painted lips, as she picked up Alistair’s suitcase. “Not even close, sweetling. Not even close.”

 

 


	2. Studio 54

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little Merrill/Isabela femslash for you lovelies, somewhat inspired by a scene from the show _Transparent._ I hope you enjoy :)

At first, his mind still foggy with sleep, Alistair didn’t know where he was when he woke up the next morning.

He rubbed at his eyes, blinking a bit as he studied his surroundings. Late morning light was filtering in through filmy white curtains so he could see clearly. He was lying beneath a soft feather coverlet on a long, wide sofa, in a spacious room with a high ceiling, trimmed with elaborate molding painted black. The entire room was crammed with Old World furniture, and most of the rather faded, wide-striped wallpaper was covered by an extravagant number of picture frames displaying artsy nude photographs of women, and paintings in a variety of styles, giving the room the feel of an antique shop. Vases of crystal, ship instruments of brass, strings of beads, and carefully arranged collections of stones, seashells and feathers all added to this effect.

As Alistair stared at one of the nearest paintings – a picture of a sad clown on black velvet that, frankly, he found vaguely creepy – he remembered the events of last night. His angels.

As he sat up, his body reminded him of the beatings he’d taken. Upon arriving at the apartment the women shared, Merrill had fussed over his injuries. Other than a few bruises, a small cut near his left eyebrow, and one very stiff knee, Alistair hadn’t been too badly damaged. Still, he was sore all over, and each movement caused him to wince.

Standing up, he stretched, hoping to ease some of the ache of those stiff muscles. As he did so, his stomach rumbled in hunger. It was quiet in the apartment, so he assumed that the angels were still in bed. The night before, however, they had insisted that he make himself at home, so he was moderately certain that helping himself to something in the kitchen wouldn’t be ill-mannered.

Alistair didn’t know where the kitchen was, so he would have to wander until he found it. He’d worn his undershirt and boxers for sleeping, but wasn’t quite ready for the task of putting on his pants. Thus attired, Alistair padded barefoot through the nearest doorway.

Down a narrow corridor, he found the bathroom. There he made use of the toilet, then splashed some water on his face, and made a brief effort to tame his unruly hair. Satisfied that he no longer looked like he’d stuck his finger in an electrical socket, Alistair left the bathroom and continued down the hall.

His knee was still stiff. As he quietly limped along, he heard a strange sound. Slowing, he listened more attentively until he heard it again. A woman’s voice – was she crying? He couldn’t tell. Suddenly concerned, Alistair followed the sound to a door at the end of the corridor.

The door was slightly ajar. Pressing his face to the crack, Alistair peeked inside.

It was another large room with high ceilings, decorated in lush shades of purple and red, with a lavish crystal chandelier at the center. Below the chandelier was a massive four-poster bed of dark mahogany. And upon the bed, nestled among a colorful sea of silken pillows, were the women.

Merrill lay upon her back, head tilted back to expose a long and elegant white neck, her hair dark like an oil spill across the sheets, eyes closed, lips parted and glistening. Isabela, on hands and knees, crouched above her. As Alistair watched, Isabela, who had been kissing Merrill’s pretty neck, shifted a little. Dark fingers plucked up the edge of the silky little nightgown Merrill wore, then pulled it down to bare Merrill’s chest. Small, but perfectly round, Merrill’s breasts seemed to invite kisses, two creamy white confections tipped with blushing pink.

With a dusky smile, Isabela slid her hands to firmly cup Merrill’s breasts. As she dipped her head to capture one of the soft pink peaks between her lips and began to suck, Merrill moaned softly.

“Yes, Bela,” she breathed. “Oh, Creators, like that. So lovely...”

 _Maker’s breath._ At the sight of the two women together in such an intimate embrace, Alistair had frozen like a deer in the headlights. He knew that he shouldn’t be watching this, and yet, as Isabela continued to suckle and caress the other woman’s sweet breasts, he found that he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

When Merrill let out a particularly loud moan, Isabela drew back. Even from his distance, Alistair could see her wickedly pleased grin. “I’m glad you like it, kitten,” she purred. “Is there anything else you’d like me to lick?”

Merrill’s response was a breathless and enthusiastic plea. “Yes, Bela! Please!”

Still smiling, Isabela slid gracefully down Merrill’s body. Once situated between the other woman’s legs, she reached for the hem of the silky nightgown, pushing it over Merrill’s creamy thighs and up, out of the way, revealing the elf girl’s dark patch of neatly trimmed hair.

Alistair felt the heat rise to her face. _Maker’s breath, that’s her..._ No, even in the privacy of his own head, he couldn’t say the word. Or any of the words, really, that the farmhands – who’d been far more interested in these matters than Alistair had – had used to describe lady parts.

Alistair had never seen a naked woman up close before. However, because of the angle, he got more than an eyeful of Merrill’s most secret place as Isabela gently nudged Merrill’s legs wider, then, with delicate dark-lacquered fingers, spread apart the flesh, revealing Merrill’s inner core, pink and soft as rose petals, and glistening wet.

Alistair felt himself stirring in his boxers.

From this angle, he could even see Isabela’s tongue as it darted out to flick over the sensitive flesh. Making Merill wetter. Making her moan. Alistair’s gaze was completely transfixed by the movement of Isabela’s tongue. Flicking up and down. Swirling teasingly round and round Merrill’s swollen clit. Slicking a trail from that hard little bud to her entrance, up and down the inner lips, over and over. Lapping.

Almost unaware of what he was doing, Alistair lifted a hand to stroke the rather lively erection that was now tenting his boxers.

Merrill’s back arched, breasts quivering, as she panted out her next words. “Oh, Creators! Bela! Get the dick! Get the dick!”

Isabela drew back so she was resting on her heels. “As you wish, kitten,” she purred. “Though if it’s dick you want... perhaps our new friend would like to join us?”

Turning her head, she stared directly at Alistair.

 _Flames!_ She’d clearly been aware that he’d been watching the entire time. _Spying_ on them. A rush of blood turned Alistair’s face crimson. Maker’s mercy, he’d never been so embarrassed in his entire life! And her scandalous suggestion....!

Alistair did the only reasonable thing he could think of. Tripping over his own feet as he scrambled back from the door, he hurriedly righted himself, turned around, and fled.

\--------------------------

As Isabela casually curled her hand around Merrill’s breast through the elf’s diaphanous dressing gown, Alistair, blushing again, stared down into his teacup.

The tea – brewed strong and dark – had been served in mismatched but elegant porcelain teacups on saucers. Isabela’s was decorated with oriental dragons, which suited her, and Merrill’s was Art-Deco inspired, all geometric patterns in pale blues, oranges and yellows. As for Alistair’s cup, it looked like it had belonged to someone’s grandmother: gold-rimmed and covered with pink roses.

“Oh, look, kitten,” Isabela said with a dark chuckle. “We’ve made him blush again.”

Alistair cleared his throat. Unable to quite lift his eyes to meet theirs, he gazed down at the remnants of their odd and decadent meal. Cucumber slices, lox, and smears of whipped cream from the crepes the angels had made dirtied the little square plates, all served on a large silver tray. “You’ve both been very kind to me,” he said. “I’ll pack up and be on my way.”

There was a small moment of silence before Merrill protested. “What? You’re leaving?”

Alistair nodded.

Merrill turned to look at her lover with pleading eyes.

 _Ah, fuck it,_ Isabela thought. _Whatever kitten wants...._ Still, she expressed her displeasure by exhaling loudly. “Look, pretty boy. No one is kicking you out. We know you have nowhere else to go.”

Merrill beamed happily at her. Smiling, Isabela ran her fingers lightly through the elf’s hair.

Alistair stared at them both in surprise. “Really? That’s...” he began, but then his eagerness dimmed. “I... no. I couldn’t possibly take advantage.”

Isabela snorted. “Trust me, that isn’t going to happen.” Thoughtful, she then raked a hand through her own hair, settling back more comfortably next to Merrill on the lounge. “You know, we could clear out the old work room...”

Merrill’s eyes widened, becoming bright. “Ooh, that’s a wonderful idea,” she gushed. “We weren’t using it anyway. This way he can have some privacy.”

Alistair blinked. They wanted him to stay...? They didn’t even know him. “But I –”

Isabela waved a disapproving finger at him. “No buts,” she interrupted. “You will stay with us. This isn’t a favor, mind you. Once you’ve become a big Broadway star, we’ll expect you to put in your share of rent. Until then, though...” Isabela paused, thoughtful once more. “Hmm. I’m not sure what we should do with you.”

“Oh, Bela, I know!” Merrill exclaimed. “He doesn’t know anything about Kirkwall. Or anyone! We’ll take him out!”

Smiling indulgently, Isabela stroked her lover’s hair once more. “And where are we taking him exactly?”

“To where anyone who is anyone in Kirkwall goes, of course,” Merrill answered promptly. “Studio 54.”

\--------------------------

So many blinking lights. Colors flashing in tandem across the dance floor. Twinkling, pretty little lights like colorfully wrapped hard candies scattered from a broken piñata. Music so loud that everyone had to shout just to be heard. And bodies. So many bodies.

Alistair had never seen anything like it before. Bewildered and nearly overwhelmed, he trailed closely behind his angels as they wove their way through the crowd, stopping to greet and air kiss some of the strangest looking people that Alistair had ever met. There were so many sequins. Scandalously skimping articles of clothing, including a young man wrapped in what looked like nothing more than leather belts, and another wrapped up in what appeared to be a fishing net. Faces of both genders were extravagantly painted. A plethora of furs and feathers and sparkly baubles. A buxom woman in a gold lame gown boldly squeezed his bottom when the angels introduced him, but – otherwise – Alistair was mostly ignored.

Which was fine by him. He didn’t quite feel comfortable in the clothing that Isabela had chosen for him: a vintage tuxedo in royal blue, with a shimmery white shirt and a red silk ascot instead of a bow tie. They’d even styled his dark blond hair, swept back and gelled into place. Still, both of the women had assured him that Studio 54 was the perfect place for a young actor wanting to make all the right connections – as long as he could get noticed.

Eventually, he did get noticed – though not in the way he’d hoped or imagined.

Alistair had never seen a man so perfectly polished, at least not outside of a magazine – hair artfully arranged, impressively thick mustache waxed, and with bronze skin smooth as butter, a generous helping of which peeked out of the open neck of his crisp white shirt, beneath a perfectly-tailored and rather lush suit of wine-dark velvet. Smiling with perfect white teeth, he held out an elegant, gold-ringed hand.

“Dorian Pavus,” he said. “And you are...? I’m certain I’d remember you if we’d met.”

Alistair politely shook the offered hand, not quite missing the hungry look in the man’s eye, but not sure how he felt about it. “Alistair,” he said. “And I just arrived in Kirkwall yesterday. From Ferelden.”

On Dorian’s arm was an astounding looking woman. Skin of ebony, full lips of glossy plum, piercing eyes framed in dusky liner and silver glitter. Silver, too was the floor-length gown she wore, tight like a second skin, and accompanied by an impressively large beaded headdress that spiraled up, giving her the illusion of horns. Unlike Dorian, the woman’s gaze was almost clinical as she regarded the Ferelden.

Isabela’s hand fell on his shoulder. “Alistair, let me introduce you to Madame Le Fer. This is her club.”

Madame Le Fer smiled politely. “A pleasure to have you here, my dear,” she drawled. “Do have a glass of champagne on the house. Just go to the bar and tell them I said so.”

These people – so glamorous, so beautiful – they didn’t even seem real. “Thank you. That’s, ah, very kind of you.”

At this Madame Le Fer laughed. “Kind? I haven’t heard that word applied to me before. How utterly charming.”

Alistair didn’t know what to say about that. Clearing his throat, he turned to Dorian. “And what do you do?”

Merrill piped in. “Oh, Dorian’s an art critic! He writes for _The Face.”_

Dorian lifted one eyebrow in Isabela’s direction. “Great Maker, Isabela! Wherever did you find him? Did you and Merrill take a jaunt to the countryside and pick up some souvenirs while you were there? Some homemade jam and a handsome young man?” Pausing, he let his eyes sweep suggestively from Alistair’s stylishly gelled hair down to his Oxford-capped toes. “Are all country-bred boys as strapping as you?”

Isabela laughed near Alistair’s ear. “You may want to watch out with this one, sweetling,” she warned him. “Dorian likes blonds.”

Dorian made a flippant gesture with his free hand. “I like things that aren’t ugly,” he said dryly, then he eyed Alistair again with the same hunger. “And I’d say you ladies have found yourself quite the little treasure.”

“Dorian, we’re trying to introduce him to all the right people,” Merrill said. “Who’s here?”

Dorian gave a lilting shrug. “I’ve only just arrived. Fashionably late, of course,” he said. “However I do know that his Highness is here with his elven entourage, of course. In the usual place.” He then turned to Madame Le Fer with a haughty sneer. “Vivienne, have you _seen_ what Cullen is wearing? Maker, the scandal! Is there nothing in that pretty blond head of his, or does he just not care? I mean, the paparazzi are everywhere!”

Vivienne stroked a hand down Dorian’s velvety sleeve. “In that case, darling, we should go find them. I haven’t been photographed enough for my liking. Something needs to be done to remedy that immediately.”

At this pronouncement, the glamorous couple left them with a flurry of air kisses – though Alistair felt his stomach do a strange little flip as Dorian’s mustache accidentally-on-purpose brushed against his cheek, close to his mouth, as the critic’s hand lightly touched his elbow. Somehow – inexplicably – it was the most sexual thing Alistair had ever experienced in his life.

Whatever Alistair’s expression was doing caused Isabela to laugh. “Oh, well that explains a lot.”

Merrill looked at her, perplexed. “What explains what?”

Isabela only smiled dreamily in reply. When Merrill insisted, Isabela just patted her arm, saying, “I’ll tell you later, kitten.”

“So,” Alistair said. “Who’s this Cullen person he mentioned?”

“Oh, Dorian’s ex,” Merrill explained, her expression suddenly grave. “Poor thing, he was in the war, you know. Terrible things happened to him. They give him bad dreams.”

That sounded terrible. Alistair didn’t even know this man, yet he felt pity for him. He couldn’t help it – having a soft heart was just his nature. Even as a child, he’d always tried to be kind – such as the time he nursed a pigeon back to health, splinting its broken wings with Popsicle sticks.

“Well, come on, then,” Isabela urged him. “We’ll introduce you.” A light twinkled in her eye as she smiled saucily. “Perhaps you could give Cullen some... _comfort_. I doubt that the Iron Bull would mind.”

The elven girl suddenly perked up. “Ooh! That’s a wonderful idea. The Dread Wolf – he knows absolutely everyone.”

 _The Iron Bull? The Dread Wolf?_ Was Kirkwall full of animals? Slightly dubious, Alistair nevertheless trailed along behind the women as they led him towards a back corner of the club.

This section was comparatively well lit. Against one wall painted black, there was a long, modular sofa in dark leather. A number of chairs was placed around it, forming a sort of horseshoe, and occupied by some of the most eccentric people Alistair had ever seen in his life. A large number of cocktail glasses filled with cherries and colorful liquid sat on the low table before the sofa, or held aloft in graceful hands. In one of the chairs was one of the largest men Alistair had ever seen, broad as a barn, horned, and wearing an eye patch. One of his meaty hands rested proprietorially on the thigh of the blond man in an ostentatious fur-collared mantle who perched on the arm of his chair. Three elves lounged on the sofa – one was a slim blond in a comfortable sprawl as if he owned the place, another a girl with a choppy pixie cut who was leisurely smoking a cigarette in a long, slender holder. But it was the elf in the middle that somehow drew Alistair’s attention.

Isabela greeted him with a smile. “Fancy meeting you here,” she said. “We haven’t seen you in a while.” Pausing, Isabela looked about. “And where’s Fenris...?”

Alistair paused. Why did that name sound so familiar? He couldn’t remember.

The elf’s lips twitched up in a placid smile. “Fenris went off on one of his midnight outings,” he said. He didn’t shout, yet somehow his voice still carried across the space, and over the music, which was still somewhat loud, despite the fact that someone had lowered the volume during their trek across the club. “You know, Isabela, you and Merrill should come to the Factory more often. In fact, there will be a happening tomorrow night. Bull and Cullen have agreed to put on a show for us. It will be delightful.”

Merrill perked up again. “A show?” she asked the Qunari and the blond. “Like the one with the hard-boiled eggs and cabbages?”

Cullen smiled as he rubbed one hand across the back of his neck. “Ah, no. Bull wanted to do something different this time.”

Bull grinned. “Yeah. Wanted to do something special,” he rumbled. “I’d tell you, but it would ruin the surprise.”

“Ooh,” Merrill said, bright as sunshine. “I love surprises.”

Isabela smiled indulgently as she smoothed a caress over Merrill’s shoulder. “It sounds too good to miss,” she said to the elves on the sofa. “Though... would it be okay if we brought our new friend?”

At Isabela’s indicating gesture, all eyes turned to Alistair. In their gazes, there was a hint of curiosity. Alistair felt strangely as if he were some sort of purebred in a dog show before a panel of judges. At least until the slim blond elf lightly rubbed his fingers across his chin, cocking his head as he considered Alistair with a different kind of expression. As if it were a hot day, and Alistair was a refreshingly icy cold glass of lemonade.

“So, Isabela,” he purred in a silky voice that was all Antivan accent. “This is your new friend? I do hope you’re willing to share him.”

Smoke curled dragon-like through the air as the other blond elf exhaled. “Andraste’s arse, Zev,” she muttered, words slurred. “Try keepin’ it in your bloody pants for a change, eh?”

Zevran chuckled. “And what, my dear Sera, would be the fun in _that?”_ he drawled. “Might I suggest that you consider trying cock just once? Perhaps you might even like it.”

Sera’s scrunched up her face in disgust. “Ugh. No thanks. I’d rather suck on a Chantry mother’s withered-up old tits.”

Zev laughed again. “I would pay to see that.”

Isabela smiled slyly. “Who wouldn’t?”

 _Maker’s breath – what have I gotten myself into?_ Alistair wondered, but this thought was short-lived, as Isabela was now nudging him forward towards the couch to present him to the elf who sat at the center of everything as if holding court, with an air of perfect detachment. Alistair stumbled forward as Isabela gave him a little shove.

“Solas – this is our new friend Alistair. Off the bus yesterday, so he couldn’t be any fresher. Alistair – this is the king of Pop Art, also known as the Dread Wolf.”

Alistair considered the Dread Wolf. His age was difficult to determine, but despite the lack of lines in his face, he struck Alistair as being much older. In a simple black suit, white shirt, black bow tie, and nerdy, thick-framed glasses, he looked more like an accountant than a famous artist. The only thing unusual about him was that he wore a ridiculous white-colored wig that seemed to float on top of his egg-shaped head like a dirty feather duster.

His expression was practically stoic as he considered Alistair for a long moment. But his gaze was sharp as razors. Assessing. Judging. Finally he extended a hand in greeting. Politely, Alistair took it.

Everyone around him released a collective sigh of relief.

Solas’ placid smile reappeared. “Alistair, is it?”

Alistair nodded.

Wheels were turning around in the artist’s head. Yes, this young man had potential. Surely, Solas could find a most interesting use for him.

Continuing to smile, he released Alistair’s hand and leaned back again. “If you’re free, come see me at the Factory tomorrow.”


	3. The Factory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a little hint of Cullen/Iron Bull for you lovelies. I hope you enjoy it. :)

Silver. As far as the eye could see. Every surface shimmered, scattering dollops of reflected light. Every wall, every door, the interior of the elevator and even a portion of the floor. Silver as fish scales. Silver as freshly minted quarters. Silver as tin foil.

Actually, it turned out that it was tin foil.

“It’s very... shiny,” was Alistair’s less than eloquent response when Solas greeted him by asking what he thought of the decor.

The Dread Wolf blinked languidly behind his coke-bottle thick lenses as he daintily sipped his tea. “It was all Fenris’ idea,” he said, tone placid. “When he was living in Hightown, he’d done the entire interior just like this. So I asked him to recreate it here.” Solas paused to sip his tea again. “Have you met Fenris Name? He’s a photographer. Among... other things.”

That name again. Alistair still didn’t recognize it. But before he could say anything, Solas had turned and called for Fenris. A moment later, a familiar white-haired man appeared: tawny skin, white tattoos, now spattered with paint.

“Ahh!” Alistair cried, automatically ducking behind Isabela in a way that could only be described as cowardly.

Isabela cocked an eyebrow, hissing over her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

What _was_ he doing? Using a woman as a shield? Though, to be honest, Isabela looked more than capable enough to defend him. Sheepishly, Alistair straightened his spine and shoved his shoulders back with a confidence he didn’t really feel. “Me? I was just... admiring the back of your skirt.”

Fenris’ gaze swept over the newcomers. To Solas he gave a curious look. “You called?”

“Yes,” Solas replied. “The ladies’ new friend here was just admiring your work.”

Fenris turned to Alistair. In the bright light of the studio, his eyes were sharp emeralds, glittering bright, but there was no spark of recognition in them.

Alistair wondered if Fenris and his friends beat up a lot of people, and if so – was he really that forgettable? He swallowed hard. “Yes, I love what you’ve done with the décor,” he said. “Solas said that you live in Hightown?”

“Not anymore,” Fenris said.

“Fenris lives at the Factory now,” Solas added. “In the closet at the back of the studio.”

Isabela barked a hearty laugh. “In the closet, Fenris? I do like irony, but... isn’t that a bit much?”

“Oh, dear,” Merrill fretted. “That sounds dreadful. Like a dark place.”

Fenris lifted one paint-streaked hand, nonchalantly brushing back a lock of thick white hair from his face. “It’s a large closet. More than enough room.” Pausing, the elf’s green eyes flicked back to Solas. “I should get back to work. You know what happens when Sera is left unsupervised for too long.”

“Indeed,” Solas said. Smiling benignly, he placed a proprietary hand lightly on the back of Fenris’ neck, letting it rest there for a moment. “I’ll be over in a little while to check your progress.”

A subtle blush infused Fenris’ cheeks, darkening the tawny skin. He coughed into his fist. “I... of course,” he murmured. Then, “I promised Cullen that I would pick up some things for him later. For tonight.”

“Did you now?” Suddenly Solas’ tone became frosty. His hand slipped from the other elf’s neck. “Well, then, you’d better get back to work.”

Eyes hard, he then waved Fenris away with a dismissive gesture.

With a grimace, Fenris slipped off.

Alistair watched him go. That... well, it was _something._ He didn’t know what that exchange had meant exactly, but there was obviously a story behind it. “Work?”

A small, slender elf walked past them. As she reached Solas, she smoothly snagged the empty cup and saucer from Solas’ outstretched hand.

“Yes,” Solas said. “I'll show you what we do here. Follow me.”

Dutifully, Alistair and the angels tagged along behind Solas deeper into the Factory. Behind a partition, the silver ended. Instead, there were hardwood beams strung with theatrical lights, illuminating a work space crammed with paint-splattered tables where a handful of elves were busy at work. Behind the group, stacks of stretched canvas and dirty screens sat beside shelves filled with dozens of half-gallon jugs filled with paint.

Among them, besides Fenris, he recognized two of the elves from the night before – Sera and Zevran.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” Isabela purred near Alistair’s ear. “Solas designs the art, then he has his army of elven minions mass produce silkscreens of the original work. Which he then sells for an outrageous sum of money.”

Alistair considered the image on the nearest canvas. “Soup cans?”

Solas, expression indifferent, looked upon his minions. “All I’ve done is brought the principles of capitalism to art,” he said mildly. “Art doesn’t have to be an elitist endeavor. Art should be like any other commodity that one would consume. Such as shoes. Umbrellas.” Pausing, he smiled. “Soup cans.”

“Ooh,” Merrill breathed. “I like soup.”

“Oh, I see,” Alistair said, even though he didn’t. “So... you just make paintings?”

A deep voice unexpectedly murmured into Alistair’s ear, causing him to jump. “Oh, no, you delicious cream puff of a man. Solas does everything.” Whirling, Alistair came face to face with Zevran, who was firmly – and uncomfortably – within Alistair’s bubble of personal space. Taking a step back, Alistair felt his face turn warm. “He, uh... everything?”

Zevran smiled, all white teeth and golden skin, and that dark-ink tattoo that swirled down his face, inviting Alistair to trace it with his fingers. And – Maker’s breath, what was he even thinking? And furthermore – wait. Cream puff?

“Everything is art,” Solas said. “Making money is art. And working is art. And good business is the best art.” Pausing, he stroked his narrow chin with long fingers. “Now, though, I’ve become quite interested in the art of film-making. You’ve met Zevran, yes? He’s one of my celluloid superstars.” Alistair lit up, looking at Zevran with a touch of admiration and a hint of envy. “You... you’re famous, then?”

Solas smiled benignly. “I believe that, in the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes.”

“Did you know, Solas?” Merrill piped up. “Alistair is an actor. Perhaps you could use him in one of your films?”

Isabela clamped a hand down on her own mouth, little peals of laughter bubbling out around her fingers. “Oh, kitten...” she gasped. “Though... he certainly is pretty enough to be in pictures.”

Zevran’s eyes were smoke. “I'd say he’s pretty enough to be in many places.”

Still stroking his chin, Solas studied Alistair as if seeing him for the first time. “Indeed,”he said after a moment’s reflection. “I could make you a superstar.”

\-------------------------------

He’d never imagined that he would be at a fancy party, wearing an expensive suit, with a beautiful woman on each arm, surrounded by some of the most beautiful people he’d ever seen, on only his third night in Kirkwall.

The Factory looked different at night. There were all sorts of lights, artfully arranged, that left room for shadowed corners. People lounged on groupings of chairs scattered about, though much of the crowd congregated near the bar where liquor constantly flowed. It was towards this bar that Isabela dragged him almost as soon as they’d walked through the tin foil door.

Above the bar, hung with fishing wire, was a galaxy of silvered cardboard stars. Lazily spinning, they twinkled with reflected light. Alistair was already feeling positively festive as they weaseled their way up to the bar, and Isabela ordered thee rum punches.

At least until the man tending the bar turned around. Close-cropped hair, shrewd eyes, and chewing thuggishly on a toothpick. The leader of the Angry Tranny Brigade himself.

 _Maker’s breath!_ Alistair braced himself, hoping that Krem would – like his white-haired elven comrade – not recognize him. However this hope was short-lived. Upon seeing him, Krem’s eyes narrowed.

“I ain’t serving the likes of you,” Krem muttered.

Isabela’s gaze traveled between the two men. Then she leaned across the bar, chucking Krem lightly under the chin with her finger. “Look, Krem Darling,” she purred with a little smile. “Whatever happened was just a misunderstanding.”

“Oh, yes!” Merrill added. “Alistair is a perfectly nice young man. We can certainly vouch for him.”

Krem stared sullenly at Alistair for a long moment. Then he grunted as he reached for three tall glasses, filling each one with punch. Then he garnished two of the glasses with fruit speared by little plastic swords, and a pretty paper umbrella on top. Those he slid across the bar to the ladies – Alistair’s remained plain. Though Alistair did wonder if the man had perhaps spit into it that moment his back had been turned.

“Thanks, handsome,” Isabela said with a saucy smile to the bartender. Then she linked her arm through Alistair’s again. “Now that we are suitably _lubricated_ for the evening’s festivities, we should mingle. _Everyone_ who is important in Kirkwall is here.”

Alistair tried to smile bravely. “As you wish.”

The angels then proceeded to parade Alistair around, introducing him to a large number of people, and lingering briefly in each location. There was small talk, and a lot of catty gossip about people he didn’t know. Not having much to contribute, Alistair just smiled and nodded politely, and tried to remember everyone’s name.

 _I don’t belong here,_ he thought, more than once. In truth, he felt out of his element. He may have just as well been an ornament on Isabela’s arm for all the attention anyone paid him. And, like any other accessory, he was soon left behind like a pair of gloves on a bar as Isabela was pulled off in one direction, Merrill in another.

A bit lost, Alistair wandered through the room, which, by now, had become rather crowded, looking for familiar faces. Eventually he found one.

There was soft sitar music playing in one of the corners. Drawn to it, Alistair found three people sprawled across large, silken pillows on a rug, rings and streams of smoke hovering in the air above an ornately jeweled hookah on a low table between them. Among them, the elf girl with the Pixie haircut – Sera.

At his arrival, Sera’s eyes narrowed as she studied him through the haze. Then she brightened. “Oh, hello, you,” she said. “You’re the new boy everyone’s talkin’ ‘bout, yeah? The one the Dread Wolf is gonna put in his films.” Grinning, she patted a space on the thick rug beside her. “Come take a load off, all right?”

Having no real reason to refuse, Alistair sat down on the space between Sera and a young, pale man wearing an extravagantly large hat. “Thank you,” Alistair said. “I’m afraid I’ve lost track of the women I came with, and I hardly know anyone at this party.”

“It’s not a party, it’s a happening,” came the voice from the other man stretched out on the pillows across from him. He was a somewhat handsome man, with strawberry-blond hair partially pulled back from a kind face, wearing numerous ropes of beads about his neck and wrists, just visible under his coat comprised mostly of black feathers. “If you’re going to be part of the scene, it’s helpful if you know the right terms.”

“Fuck sake, Anders,” Sera said with a chortle. “Ain’t a happenin’ unless shite is happenin’.”

Anders smiled dreamily. “Something will be happening later. Such as Hawke sucking me off later, if I’m lucky.”

Sera made a face. “Ugh. Didn’t need that image, thanks. Now I’m gonna hafta go scrub up with some brain bleach.”

Anders laughed.

The other man leaned closer to Alistair, holding out of the stem of the hookah in offering. “I’m Cole,” he said, voice spider-web thin. “Would you like some more?”

Alistair paused. “I... I’ve had nothing yet, so I can’t take more.”

Anders laughed. “You mean you can’t take _less._ It’s very easy to take _more_ than nothing.”

That wasn’t even logical. But Alistair didn’t want to start an argument. Instead he offered Cole a polite smile. “I’m sorry, but... I, ah... don’t even know what that is.”

A dreamy smile ghosted across the pale man’s lips. “It’s the key to Wonderland,” he whispered. “It will show you all your sweetest nightmares and your darkest desires.”

Nightmares and darkness? Alistair was moderately certain that this was an offer he could – and most likely should – refuse. “Ah, very polite of you to share,” he said. “But I think I’ll pass.”

So focused on Cole, Alistair did not notice when Sera leaned forward, extending a slender hand to tip the contents of a slim glass vial over the rim of his glass. A puff of blue smoke rose, and then the powder dissolved, becoming invisible in his drink.

Smiling uncomfortably as he became aware of the trio’s stares, Alistair lifted his glass and drank.

Suddenly, a pair of hands was pulling Alistair abruptly to his feet. “Oh, there you are,” came a familiar, clipped voice. “I was wondering if you were going to make an appearance at Solas’ little fete.”

Alistair glanced up. Flash of wolfish white teeth against dark skin, pale silk and bright velvet, dark hair impeccably swept up and back. The man he’d met at the club the night before: Dorian Pavus. “Oh. Hello again.”

Still smiling, Dorian tugged at his arm, drawing him away from the others. In a low voice, he spoke softly in Alistair’s ear. “My good man. You should be more careful with the company you keep.” Tilting his chin, he addressed the person who was hovering nearby. “Isn’t that so, Cassandra Ultra Violent?”

Alistair’s heart screeched to a halt, nearly leaving skid marks in his underpants. From under a jauntily cocked fedora, the third member of the Angry Tranny Brigade glared menacingly down at him. Then they snorted. “I could say the same to you, Dorian.”

A bit perplexed, Dorian considered both of them for a brief moment. Then, lips twitching up in an amused smile, he gave Alistair’s arm an encouraging squeeze. “Don’t mind anything Cassandra says,” he murmured. “Their bark is far worse than their bite.”

Dubious, Alistair glanced at the... well, he wasn’t quite sure what to call them... a drag king? Then flinched when Cassandra bared their teeth at him.

“What I meant was those people over there,” Dorian continued, giving a small chin jerk in the direction of Sera and her friends. “The lot of them – lost, depraved souls.” Leaning closer, he let his voice drop. “Lotus eaters.”

Alistair frowned at the unfamiliar term. “Lotus eaters?”

Cassandra huffed. “He means Lyrium lickers,” she said. When she saw that this didn’t clear up Alistair’s confusion, she added, with an impatient sigh, “Drug addicts.”

Back in the countryside, Alistair had heard many stories warning him of the dangers of the city. In particular the perils of illicit drugs. “Oh!” he said. “I see.”

At this, Dorian chuckled. “My, you really are innocent as innocent as a boy scout, aren’t you?” When Alistair remained silent, uncertain how to respond to that, Dorian just smiled and patted his arm. “Well, now you know.” Flash of teeth again. “Do try to be more... careful, yes?”

Alistair agreed readily. Thanked the man profusely. Dorian patted his arm once more with a smile before gliding away, smooth as butter over a hot griddle, while Cassandra, angrily snapping gum, trailed along at his side.

 _What strange people,_ Alistair thought. But he was suddenly aware that he himself felt strange. His head was light as a balloon, threatening to float away, his heart warm as a cookie in an oven, his skin slightly tingly all over as though he were being caressed by invisible feathers. As he marveled over these unfamiliar sensations, his feet moved, propelling him aimlessly through the crowd.

After a few moments of wandering, the _happening_ happened.

The announcement was a quiet call for attention, whisper thin and lacking import, followed by a flicker of lights that faded into tin foil seams before other bulbs illuminated a previously darkened space near the back of the Factory.

Alistair recognized both of the figures who were suddenly bathed in light, so bright that it caused him to the blink, and paled the gray skin of the enormous, bare-chested Qunari, and nearly washed the blond man’s normally fair hair and ruddy skin white. Against Cullen’s mostly naked body, a series of buckled straps in black leather provoked a startling contrast.

In the ensuing hush, Alistair pondered the complexity of the contraption that bound Cullen’s body. As if he were trussed up like a turkey. Straps firmly held his arms behind his back, while others were secured around his chest and torso, forming a V down between his groin, which was covered by only a scanty pair of black underpants. As he watched, the Iron Bull slowly circled Cullen, attaching sturdy-appearing clamps to the metals hoops of Cullen’s restraints. Each hook tipped a heavy rope tied to a metal bar suspended by chain from the ceiling. Once Bull had finished inspecting his work, he stepped back, and with a mighty tug of the nearby lever, launched Cullen up into the air.

Alistair winced as Cullen gasped. Being suspended from the ceiling like that must have hurt. But as he studied the twisted features of the handsome man’s face, he wasn’t quite sure. Was it pain that Cullen felt...? Or rapture...?

As if out of nowhere, an object appeared in the large gray hands. Alistair recognized it easily as a riding crop that nobles tended to favor with their horses: black and reed thin, with a tiny leather strop at one end, it whistled menacingly as it cut through the empty space between them. With another flourish, Bull snapped the air again with the crop, to the crowd’s delight, before he began to trace the ridges and planes of the blond man’s impressively muscular body with the strop.

Disturbed and fascinated in equal measure, Alistair, his head increasingly light as summer clouds, watched as the tip of the Qunari’s crop slipped teasingly into the hollow of Cullen’s throat, then down along the collar bone to his chest to trace along the pectorals and flicking to harden the pale, pink nipples. Alistair watched Cullen’s face – eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back, lips parted and glistening – as the crop continued on its languorous trail down along the washboard abs that clenched in hungry response, then further along to tease under the edge of Cullen’s waistband, then down along the quivering shaft that strained against the black silk –

Alistair nearly jumped as a sultry voice purred unexpectedly hot and close into the shell of his ear. “So. What do you think?”

Alistair spun about. Behind him stood Zevran. His eyes, all molten amber in the dim light, seemed to be laughing.

At him.

Flustered like a school boy who had just been caught doing something naughty, Alistair didn’t know what to say. However, as the moments ticked by, he realized that the handsome elf was waiting for _some_ response. “It’s, ah... very... well, unusual. I’ve never seen anything, umm, quite like it.”

A glint of amusement sparkled in Zevran’s eye. He quirked a curious brow – the right one. “Hmm. That makes me wonder what you _do_ do in the countryside for fun,” he murmured teasingly. Stepping forward, he lowered his voice even further. “One hears things in one’s travels, of course. Mostly involving farm animals.”

 _Farm animals? Maker’s breath!_ A blast of heat surged straight to Alistair’s face, and he stammered out his protest. “That isn’t...! To even suggest...! Why, I never...!”

Eyes glittering as though they were full of fireflies, Zevran chuckled darkly. “Now, now, my friend. There is no need to take offense where none was intended.” Smiling, his slid a light hand reassuringly down Alistair’s coat sleeve, his voice now all drawl of dark promise. “Though – if you are willing – perhaps some time you could tell me more about what they do for ‘fun’ in the countryside.” Still smiling, he let his hand drop, then disappeared back into the crowd, but only after adding, “Or better yet – perhaps you could _show_ me some time.”


	4. Blow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were following this story, please pardon my long absence! But I've finally figured out where it's going. And it's about time we had a little Alistair/Zevran action. :)

It was a red couch.

Alistair tried not to fidget as he stood in a row, Fenris and Solas to his left, Zevran and the Iron Bull to his right, each of them studying the couch with rapt concentration as if it were covered with invisible hieroglyphics that each of them was trying to decipher.

Alistair had woken that morning, half-dressed and lying on the floor of the angels’ workroom-soon-to-be-bedroom, unable to quite remember how he had gotten home from the party the night before, his head all full of jackhammers. At least until Merrill had brewed him an herbal concoction that had magically soothed his aches away. Then, realizing the late hour, he’d barely had time to shower and dress before dashing out to the Factory to meet Solas, as requested.

Upon the stairs, he’d encountered Fenris and Bull, hauling up the prize of the elf’s most recent midnight outing: a long, almost coffin-like couch with a curving back, upholstered in blood-red velvet, only just slightly fraying along the edges. Or rather, Fenris was directing Bull, who, with muscles bulging impressively, had the entire sofa hefted over one of his massive shoulders.

Zevran glanced curiously at Fenris. “And wherever did you find such a treasure, my friend?”

Fenris’ reply was curt. “Hightown. Near the Blooming Rose.”

A deep chuckle buzzed in Bull’s throat. “If it did come from the Blooming Rose, boss,” he said to Solas, “you may want to clean it before you sit on it.”

Ignoring that remark, Solas fanned his fingers before his chin, thoughtfully tapping them against his lips. “We can make use of this,” he said finally. “Good job, Fenris.”

Blushing, Fenris averted his eyes as he cleared his throat.

Whirling about, Solas snapped his fingers. “Bull – get the camera. And you –” he pointed at Alistair, “– this is your chance to make your acting debut. Sit on the couch. And don’t fuck it up.”

Alistair felt his heart flutter. This was it – the opportunity he’d been waiting for! Still, he did hesitate to actually sit on the sofa. He’d already heard about the Blooming Rose, and if the sofa had indeed come from a brothel, well... only the gods knew what depraved acts had taken place upon it, or what terrible things he might catch.

As Alistair settled down on the couch, Bull, having fetched the video camera, was now setting it upon a tripod. Alistair looked expectantly at the Dread Wolf, waiting for direction.

Solas snapped his fingers again. As if by magic, an elf appeared with a steaming cup of tea. Sipping from it, Solas turned to Bull. “You – keep the camera on Alistair’s face.”

Horns dipped in acknowledgment. “Sure thing, boss.”

“And Zevran?”

“Yes, your greatness?”

“I’ll need you in a more... _accessory_ role this time.”

“I am, naturally,” Zevran drawled, “entirely at your disposal.”

“Yes, yes,” Solas said dismissively, as Zevran’s willingness, like those of all his followers, was something he quire easily took for granted. “The name of this film will be _Blowjob._ I’m certain that you will need no further direction about your role.”

“No, indeed, your greatness.”

Alistair blinked. “Wait – what?” he sputtered. Surely, he must have misheard. Or, at the very least, he’d misunderstood. Frozen with uncertainty, he could only gape at Zevran as the elf slinked his way over to the couch before dropping gracefully to his knees before him. Then he jolted as Zevran placed both hands on his pants, flicking open the button before teasing down the zipper. Slipping one hand inside Alistair’s underwear, he deftly freed Alistair’s member.

Bull whistled. “Nice.”

Alistair, still flabbergasted, could only stare down at Zevran, thinking, _He has my penis. In his hand._

Zevran’s eyes widened. “He is very well-endowed,” he said to the room. “This will be a true test of my skill.”

Fenris snorted. “Big mouth like yours? You’ll manage.”

Bull chuckled.

Solas sighed. It was amazing, Alistair noted – despite the distraction of his most private parts now being publicly fondled by another man – how much disdain the odd elf managed to pack into such a soft sound. “Talk time over,” Solas announced. “And... action.”

The red light of the camera blinked on.

Alistair had never been in any sort of intimate situation before, so Zevran’s touch was already having its inevitable consequence. Though to be fair, Alistair was a young, full-blooded male, so a breeze would have produced the same effect. Between the elf’s nimble fingers, Alistair’s member, engorging, now rose impressively to the occasion.

Zevran muttered what sounded like a quick prayer in Antivan, leaning forward as he parted his lips, which he settled around the head of Alistair’s now hardened cock.

This. It was so painfully awkward and embarrassing to Alistair that Zevran – _a man!_ – was performing this intimate act upon him in front of an audience. Worse still that he’d somehow ended up in a pornographic film! If word got out – what would his friends and family think? Alistair knew that he’d never be able to show his face in public ever again.

And yet he was letting it happen. Without a protest, even.

Then, like a cat with a saucer of milk, Zevran began to lick. Fluttery licks, all up and down Alistair’s shaft. Eyes closed, Zevran hummed with delight as his tongue flicked over every inch, then swirled deliciously over the tip before he lapped his way down and back up again.

_Maker’s breath._.. Alistair didn’t know whether he’d breathed the words out loud, or if they were only in his head. What Zevran was doing with his tongue felt beyond amazing. As Zevran moved up and down, the hot saliva cooled on Alistair’s skin, adding another exquisite sensation to his already overly-sensitive cock.

All of a sudden, Alistair no longer cared about the camera, or the audience.

Having worked his way back up, Zevran tongued the head of Alistair’s member again. Alistair nearly jumped off the couch when Zevran wrapped his lips around the tip, sucking with enthusiasm like it was his favorite flavor of candy.

Opening his mouth wider, Zevran let his mouth sink down over Alistair’s enormous cock.

As Zevran bobbed expertly up and down over him, Alistair instinctively rocked his hips, trying to go deeper. Alistair had never imagined that anything could feel this good. In fact, nothing could surpass the pleasure he experienced as he plunged over and over into the silky wet heat of Zevran’s mouth.

Awash in a sea of ecstasy, Alistair gasped for air. His entire body was part of the experience. His fingers were crabs, clawing at the couch. Muscles clenched, back arched, head thrown back, belly tense. His blood was full of fire, nerves taut. A single cry was wrenched from his throat as the orgasm ripped right through him, aware only of his hot, throbbing cock, each pulsation flooding down Zevran’s accommodating throat.

For a moment, his head light as a balloon, all he saw was stars. Slowly the room swam back into focus.

From between Alistair’s knees, Zevran smiled like the proverbial cat who had just eaten the canary.

_Maker, I just..._ Alistair was unable to even finish that thought, and was uncertain whether he wanted to go crawl under a rock and hide forever, or to ask Zevran to pretty please do it again.

Bull whistled again. “Hot,” he muttered, with obvious approval, before turning to Solas. “What d’you think, boss?”

The Dread Wolf said nothing for a moment, only smiled enigmatically. Then he waved his hand at all of them, as if shooing away a fly.

“Cut and print,” he said.

\------------------------------

After his experience with Zevran at the Factory, Alistair didn’t quite have the courage to face his angels. They’d both been excited for his debut on film – Merrill overtly bubbling with more enthusiasm than Isabela, of course – and had even risen early to send him off with a hearty breakfast of kippers, homemade marmalade, and toast, urging him to _Come back and tell us all about it_ after the shoot. But he couldn’t even imagine how to begin what was certainly an inevitable and assuredly awkward conversation.

Instead of heading back to the apartment after leaving the Factory, Alistair turned in the other direction and began to wander aimlessly.

It was most certainly a pleasant day for a stroll – the sun was so bright, even after the silver tin foil glow of the building’s interior, he’d had to blink several times against the light. Pleasant, too, was the park he fortuitously came upon only a few minutes later. Taking up several city blocks, it was filled with stone-lined twisting paths and wrought-iron benches among the blooming, purplish-blue wisteria and matching hydrangeas.

Lost in his thoughts as he traversed the park, he paid scant attention to the people he passed, and, as he knew so few people in Kirkwall, he certainly wasn’t expecting to encounter a familiar face. Thus, it was a great deal of surprise he felt when someone called his name.

“My dear Alistair,” crooned the familiar voice. “What brings you here on this fine day?”

So distracted, Alistair had nearly bumped straight into the man who was now smiling at him. The art critic, Dorian Pavus.

The truth... well, the truth was that he was avoiding going home. But he couldn’t say that. Nor did he wish to mention his recent adventure at the Factory. “Uh... I... just taking a walk.”

Behind his stylish sunglasses, Dorian seemed to consider this most seriously. Then, with an elegant flourish, he tossed the end of his paisley silk scarf over one shoulder. “In that case, you must join us for tea,” he said decisively, in a way that brooked no argument. “I insist.”

Before Alistair could even think to protest, Dorian had scooped up his arm in his burgundy velvet-covered own, and began whisking him back down in the direction from whence he’d come. Except, instead of heading back toward the building the housed the Factory, Dorian turned left.

“Us?” Alistair asked.

Dorian gave him a sugary smile. “You’ll see.”

A few blocks later, they arrived at their destination, a smart looking brick building whose patio was enclosed in aquamarine glass. Above the vermilion awning and etched into the grand glass door was the name of the establishment: The Octopus Garden.

As the doorman ushered them through the door, Alistair hoped that the restaurant’s name wasn’t indicative of the menu.

Inside, the space was open, simple in its elegance, with walls of cream punctuated by paintings with a decidedly nautical theme. To the right, a long bar of dark teak hugged the wall, where an impressively large glass mosaic of an octopus with sprawling tentacles hung above the rows of liquor bottles. Before them, a number of tables covered by crisp white tablecloths were filled with elegantly dressed patrons sipped from gold-rimmed teacups. To the left, the enclosed patio where the maître d’ sat them upon Dorian’s request.

From above, the light filtered in through the aquamarine glass, making Alistair feel as if he were underwater.

The waiter promptly approached, carrying a stack of menus, but Dorian just waved them away, saying, “High tea for three, please. The Lapsang Souchong.”

Bowing respectfully, the waiter retreated.

“So!” Dorian said in a bright, chipper tone as he peered at Alistair over the tops on his sunglasses. “How has life in Kirkwall been treating you so far?”

Alistair was not entirely sure how to answer that, as he floated there, feeling underwater, and all too aware that he hadn’t had the opportunity to wash his privates, meaning that his manhood was still coated with the elf’s now-dried spittle. However, he didn’t have to, as they were abruptly interrupted by the arrival of the third member of their tea party.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, in an Orlesian accent that sounded almost musical. Alistair studied her as she leaned down to air kiss Dorian on both cheeks. Her hair was a shoulder-length curtain of fiery copper hair, her skin fair, and she was tastefully dressed in various shades of dark colors. As she sat down, her dark blue eyes flashed curiously to Alistair. “And... who’s this?”

“Leliana, this is Alistair. Solas’ newest pet project,” Dorian said. “Alistair, this is Leliana. The mastermind behind Page Six.”

Alistair wracked his brain. “Page Six?”

At that, Dorian lifted his sunglasses to give Alistair an incredulous stare. “Really? You haven’t heard of Page Six? The gossip column of _The Kirkwall Post?”_

Alistair shook his head.

Leliana laughed softly. “A pleasure to finally meet you, Alistair,” she said. “I’ve already heard so much about you.”

He was so surprised by this statement, that he momentarily forgot his manners. “You have?”

Dorian chuckled. “Leliana writes the most important gossip column in all of Thedas. I daresay there isn’t anything or anyone that she doesn’t know,” he said, then grinned. “Like a spymaster.”

“I wouldn’t say that, Dorian,” Leliana protested, but her small smile belied her words.

Curious, Alistair continued to regard her. “Whatever have you heard about me?”

Her smile shifted, becoming a touch more smug. As the waiter set a large silver teapot and the requite number of cups and saucers upon the table, Leliana’s eyes flicked to Dorian. “You know what Solas says?”

Dorian smiled as he picked up the teapot, pouring into Leliana’s cup, then his own. “Solas says a lot of things, my dear Leliana.”

“He says that sex is more exciting on the screen and between the pages than between the sheets,” Leliana went on. Picking up her tea cup with both hands, she smiled at Alistair through the steam, and posed her question almost innocently. “Is that true?”

Alistair felt the heat rush into his cheeks. “I...” he stammered, “I... don’t... I don’t know what you mean.”

Unwavering, Leliana held his gaze. “You were just starring in Solas’ new film,” she said. “Which – if my sources are correct – is to be called _Blowjob.”_

_Maker’s breath, she knows,_ Alistair thought. Considering that he had only finished filming less than twenty minutes ago, he was now convinced that Leliana was indeed a spymaster, and that she had at least one spy in the Factory.

At that, Dorian perked up immediately. “How positively scandalous! Did you really?” he asked, leaning closer to Alistair and dropping his voice. “I must say, I didn’t think you had it in you. My dear man, you must tell us all about it. I’m positively dying to hear of it.”

Blushing harder, Alistair worried the napkin in his lap. “There’s, ah, really not much to tell.”

“Somebody licked a lollipop,” Dorian said. “At the very least, tell us who owned the lollipop and who did the licking.”

When Alistair hesitated, Leliana added, “Or, Dorian, you could just read about it my column next Sunday.”

Alistair’s eyes widened. _Read about it in the paper? Blast!_ “Fine!” he said quickly. “I’ll tell you!”

Using as few words as possible, and blushing the entire time, Alistair sketched out the events that had just transpired at the Factory. Leliana kept a poker face, while Dorian unabashedly hung on every word of Alistair’s awkwardly recounted tale.

As the waiter returned with a tiered tray of little cakes, cookies and sandwiches without crusts, Dorian eyed Alistair as if seeing him in a new light. “May I ask you something personal?” he said, once the waiter had once again retreated. “Was this your first experience with a man?”

Leliana chuckled softly as she selected a cucumber sandwich from one of the trays. “You would ask that, Dorian,” she said softly. “Though I can see the resemblance, so it is not all that surprising.”

Alistair wasn’t quite sure what that meant. Nor did he really spend much time considering it, still struck with embarrassment by Dorian’s question. “I... of course it was!”

Dorian leaned his chin on one hand. With the other he lazily stirred his tea, the spoon softly clinking inside the cup, and clinking once again as he set it down upon the saucer. “You know, there’s nothing wrong with two men taking pleasure with each other.”

Alistair realized how offensive his exclamation must have sounded. Back home, the other boys had often joked about gay sex, but Alistair had never seen anything wrong with it. “I didn’t mean to imply...” he said, stumbling over his words. “I just... I mean, I never... ah, I don’t know how I _feel_ about it.”

Leliana smiled again. This time, it was genuine. “Ah, how wonderful!” she exclaimed. “You’re a romantic.”

Dorian snorted. “If we’re talking about Zevran... well, you know his reputation,” he reminded her. “Far from the ideal candidate for _romance.”_

“Always so cynical, Dorian,” she chided him. Then she turned back to the Ferelden. “Just keep one thing in mind, Alistair, if you follow your heart – this isn’t reality, it’s only celluloid fantasy. As Solas says, fantasy love is much better than reality love.”

 


	5. Drag Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised in the tags, here's a little Fenris/Solas for you.

Seeing his own face splashed upon the screen was both embarrassing and mesmerizing.

Following Solas’ directions, Bull had indeed kept the camera fixed solely upon Alistair’s face during the shoot. Not once did the camera dip down to show the spectators even a glimpse of Zevran’s bobbing blond head, much less what his mouth was busy doing. The only hint of what was happening off-screen came foremost from the film’s title, and from the changing expression on Alistair’s face.

“Not nearly enough action,” Isabela had drawled after they had stopped to watch it for a few minutes. “I prefer my porn to have a bit more... how should I put it? Oh, yes, _porn_ in it.”

Merrill immediately came to Alistair’s defense. “Bela, it’s not supposed to be pornographic,” she chided. “It’s _art.”_

Tonight the angels had dressed like flappers, all glitter beads and sequins, and Isabela caught the light brilliantly as she lifted a hand to fluff her dark-as-ink hair. Cocking her head, she reconsidered, then smiled at Alistair with deep plum-colored lips, her dark eyes sparkling. “Well, you do look delicious,” she decided. “And I’d wager that a lot of people in this room are feeling quite _hungry.”_

Since the premiere of _Blowjob_ three days ago, Alistair had suddenly found himself at the center of attention whenever he went out. It was if the Dread Wolf was his own personal fairy godmother – one wave of his magical wand, and he’d transformed Alistair into somebody. Unfortunately, this newfound notoriety had not yet translated into a job acting on Broadway, but at least Solas had promised to feature him in his next film, which – he had assured Alistair – would not require he participate in any acts of a carnal nature.

Case in point – no sooner than the angels had wandered off to the bar, Alistair found himself surrounded by a throng of admirers. All of them asking questions. _Who was that in the film with you? What’s your next project? What’s Solas planning? Do you know what the happening is tonight? Darling, who does your hair?_ And also – _He is quiet, behind the noise. The little bottle makes him shake, but he tests the chains._

At this last, Alistair turned towards the owner of the whispery, warbling voice, and recognized one of the lotus eaters – the scrawny young man named Cole. “Pardon me?”

At Cole’s elbow, Anders hovered. “I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you,” he said. “I’d say that Cole enjoys being cryptic, but maybe he’s just out of his fucking mind.”

From within a secret pocket, Cole withdrew a small bottle. Within was a storm of shimmering, light blue liquid that almost seemed to glow. “Rage becomes redemption. It tastes like ashes. But he doesn’t know he’s destined to save the world.” Holding the bottle out towards Alistair, he added, “Would you like to try?”

_That’s Lyrium,_ Alistair thought, involuntarily recoiling in horror. Although innocent, he was still able to recognize it. Everywhere he went, someone was drinking, snorting, smoking or injecting something. Leaving Studio 54 last night, he’d practically tripped over a pair of half-unconscious junkies in the doorway.

Still, he’d been raised with manners. “Umm... no, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” Anders said, nonchalant, as Cole silently tucked the little bottle back in his secret pocket.

Alistair was spared having to exchange any further dialogue, for it was at that moment that the _happening_ happened.

From the stereo speakers played the unmistakable opening strains of the traditional bridal march.

Cole and Anders dissolved into the crowd, but Alistair, curious, found himself drifting along with the others towards the center of the Factory. Upon a platform, holding a Bible, stood a tall man in full drag: green sequined gown to the floor, heavily ringed and manicured fingers, ruby-red lipstick, and long false eyelashes that quivered like black, jewel-encrusted caterpillars when he blinked. To the drag queen’s left, in a magenta-colored zoot suit and matching bow tie over a black button-down shirt, hair slicked back and wearing shiny, shit-kicker boots, stood Cassandra Ultra Violent.

The crowd had gathered on either side of the aisle, which was corded off by red velvet ropes. As the music played, the bride appeared. With surprise, Alistair noted it was Fenris Name, and that the elf was wearing an extravagant wedding gown which seemed to float around him, all chiffon, taffeta, lace, and seed pearl buttons, complete with a long train and a crown of snow-white flowers upon his equally white hair. Accompanying him down the aisle was the Iron Bull, dressed in a powder-blue sleeveless tux.

Bull deposited Fenris at the front with a kiss on the cheek before stepping back, his large hands folded, his expression solemn. As the officiant intoned the _Dearly Beloved_ speech, Alistair couldn’t decide if this were a mockery of a wedding, or a real wedding. Though, from his experience at Solas’ happenings so far, it could have been either, or both. By the time they exchanged rings – which, Alistair noted with some perplexed amusement were actually candy Ring Pops – he still hadn’t decided if the wedding were real or fake.

Was anything real anymore? Alistair didn’t know.

A familiar voice hummed low near Alistair’s ear. “It’s so romantic. Such a beautiful wedding.”

Turning, Alistair blinked at Leliana. He’d been puzzling over the fact that Fenris – who had been assigned female at birth – didn’t look like a woman to him. Instead, like the officiant, Fenris looked like a man in a dress. _Not that there’s anything wrong with that,_ he reminded himself. Except that it hadn’t quite escaped his notice that throughout the ceremony, Fenris had looked somewhat... _uncomfortable._

“Here,” Leliana said, as she thrust a small plastic bag into his hand. Upon a quick inspection, he realized that it contained rice. “Get ready.”

From the front, the officiant snapped his Bible shut. “I now pronounce you Drag King and Drag Queen. You may now kiss the man-bride!”

An air kiss, then the music started up again. As Cassandra and Fenris strutted back down the aisle, Alistair, at Leliana’s urging, tossed handfuls at rice at them. After the rice rained down, the crowd broke into raucous laughter and applause.

That should have been the end of it. Traditionally, the bride and groom should have run off together. Except, Alistair happened to notice that Cassandra went in one direction at the end of the aisle, and Fenris in another. Following Fenris with his eyes, he saw Solas unexpectedly emerge from the crowd as if he had melted out of it. His mouth moved. If Fenris replied, Alistair couldn’t tell. Then Solas seized Fenris by the arm and dragged him away.

All around Alistair, people had returned to chatting and admiring themselves. He wasn’t certain that anyone other than him had witnessed this exchange. _What was that about?_ he briefly wondered, but then Leliana spoke.

“You know, Alistair,” she said, “I was hoping to see you. Solas and I are planning to do our own magazine. He wants to call it _Interview._ I’d love to have you in the first issue.”

Alistair had never even been in the school newspaper, much less a fancy magazine. _Is this what fame tastes like? Like the world on a plate?_ “You mean you want to interview _me?”_

Leliana laughed. “You must say yes. I take it you read Page Six last Sunday?”

Indeed Alistair had. As promised, the gossip column had contained no mention of his part in the film. “Yes, of course.”

Leliana’s smile was a secretive thing, like an unworldly dark orchid bloom. “Good,” she said. “Then you’re aware that you owe me.”

\----------------------------------

Extricating himself from Leliana, Alistair braved the crowd in search of the angels. Merrill, most likely, would be at Isabela’s side. And Isabela would most likely be at the bar.

He was nearly at the bar when a familiar blond elf threw himself in Alistair’s path. A hitch in his breath, a patter in his heart, and a blush in his cheek as he recognized Zevran.

Zevran wore an ensemble that was all white and silver, and a smile that would have melted butter faster than a tin roof in summer.

Alistair had made it a point to avoid being alone with Zevran since the day of the filming. Now, however, the elf was firmly planted before him, a hand on Alistair’s sleeve. There was no escape.

Honey eyes all full of fireflies, Zevran’s gaze swept up and down Alistair’s body, leaving a scorching trail Alistair could feel beneath his clothes. “If I didn’t know better,” Zevran drawled, “I would begin to suspect that you’re avoiding me.”

He could feel his skin prickling, as if his nerves were being prodded by acupuncture-thin needles, the heat, his heart, and now that same prickling in the bottom of his stomach. He didn’t recognize this feeling. He only knew that Zevran’s proximity was the cause of it, and that he didn’t know what to do about it.

Flustering, he stammered, “I... what? No, of course not. I... I just...”

Honey eyes became slivers, dissecting like razors. Then Zevran laughed, mouth open wide. “I see,” he said knowingly. “Perhaps, if you’d like, you and I could go somewhere and... shall we say? Finish what we started?”

The hand on Alistair’s sleeve now stroked his arm. Through the fabric, Alistair could feel the hot, intent weight of his hand. Panic was only a breath away. There was no mistaking Zevran’s meaning – a prospect which frightened and intrigued him in equal measure.

Unthinkingly, Alistair jerked his arm free, taking a step back. “I... your offer is... kind... but... perhaps some other time.”

He fled.

Face on fire, he pushed through the crowd. He had no clear-cut destination, his only desire to put as much distance between himself and the temptation of the elf.

He soon found himself away from the party, alone in a quiet part of the Factory. Here it was dim, the only light coming through the windows up above. Pausing, he let his eyes adjust. All around him were long work-tables spattered with paint that appeared almost black in the moonlight, canvases piled upon them or stacked against the nearby walls. Solas’ production area, where his elven minions mass produced silkscreens of his art.

He’d never actually been in this part of the Factory before. Curious, Alistair wandered about, flipping through some of the canvases. There were paintings of soup cans and cola bottles, famous film stars and crooners, shoes, dogs, flowers – Alistair liked that one the best – as well as portraits of some of the familiar faces in Solas’ retinue.

As he was admiring a rather colorful portrait of Krem Darling, he heard a strange noise coming from the back of the room.

Alistair froze, listening. Seconds ticked by. In the background, he could hear only the music and guests’ chatter from the party. _Perhaps I imagined it,_ he supposed, but, just as he was turning to leave, he heard it again. Something rattling, this time followed by what sounded like the low moan of someone in pain.

Alistair did not consider himself a hero. However, if there were the possibility that someone was hurt and needed his help, he couldn’t, in good conscience, pretend that he hadn’t heard it. Unable to ignore it, Alistair decided to investigate.

He moved stealthily towards the back of the room. Tucked into one corner there was a door, light spilling through the cracks. Stepping quietly, he made his way over to the door and pressed his face to the crack.

It was either a very small room, or a very large closet. It took Alistair a moment to recall Fenris saying that he lived in a closet here in the Factory, and that this must be it, for Fenris stood, bent over, in the middle of it. Like the rest of the Factory, the interior of the closet was covered with silvery tin foil. A small futon and some other possessions were tucked against one wall which was covered floor to ceiling with a large mirror. And, from the ceiling, two heavy silver chains were hung by sturdy hooks.

Cole’s earlier words echoed in his head: _He is quiet, behind the noise. The little bottle makes him shake, but he tests the chains._ Had he meant Fenris?

Behind Fenris stood Solas.

The chains were wrapped about Fenris’ wrists. At first glance, Alistair thought that the elf was shackled into place, but at second glance, he realized that Fenris was only holding onto the chains to keep his balance. Feet firmly planted, his legs spread apart, he moaned again softly. Their backs were to the door, but Alistair could see Fenris’ face in the mirror – his face pinched with wanton need, his snow-white hair having fallen down over his eyes.

Fenris still wore the ostentatious wedding dress. As Alistair watched, Solas withdrew his hand from under Fenris’ dress, then gathered up Fenris’ skirts, pushing them up over his back. Below, Fenris wore white satiny panties. These, Solas eased down as far as Fenris’ knees, giving Alistair a complete view of Fenris’ now exposed backside.

Words dribbled from Fenris’ parted lips. “Solas... please...”

Almost nonchalant, Solas ran his fingers lazily, possessively down Fenris’ naked flank. “Don’t worry, _vhenan,”_ he said. “I’ll give you what you need.”

Solas’ long fingers made quick work of his belt. Shimmying his pants down his hips, he then withdrew his manhood. As he arranged himself behind Fenris, Alistair caught a glimpse of it – long, curving upwards, and almost golden. Running an oiled hand over himself, he made it glisten.

For an artist, his buttocks were remarkably muscled. As he took his place behind Fenris, Alistair could see his muscles flex as he placed the tip of his glistening, golden cock to Fenris’ entrance.

Fenris moaned as Solas slid into him.

_Maker, they’re having sex,_ Alistair thought. The prickling feeling had returned to his stomach. Worse, in his own pants, he could feel himself twitching, then hardening. Spying upon the angels, he’d experienced some arousal, but that had been a spark. Watching Solas fuck Fenris was a bonfire.

It was a private act, so he knew he shouldn’t be watching it. But he found that he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Nor could he stop his own hand from traveling down to his own cock. He’d only meant to adjust himself, but he was overcome by the need to touch, stroking himself in time to the rhythm of Solas’ determined thrusts.

He shouldn’t have been spying on them. He shouldn’t have been so aroused by it. And he most certainly shouldn’t have been jerking off to the perverse sight of Solas’ golden cock as it plunged steadily in and out of Fenris’ jack-knifed body.

Fenris keened. The chains rattled. In the mirror, Alistair could see the pleasure smeared across Fenris’ face. He could also see Solas. Gripping Fenris’ hips as he continued to thrust, his expression was oddly placid. Alistair, close to his own peak, stroked himself faster, and tried – unsuccessfully – to bite back his own moan of pleasure.

In the mirror, Solas’ eyes snapped up to meet his.

_Bloody hells!_ Ashamed at being caught, Alistair released his hold on his cock, barely managing to stuff it back into his pants as he scrambled away from the closet door. Still stumbling, he turned as quickly as his shaking legs would allow, Solas’ laughter ringing in his ears as he fled.

\----------------------------------

“Where have you been, Alistair?” Merrill asked.

As he’d expected, Isabela was indeed at the bar, with Merrill draped across her shoulders like a shawl. Ignoring the scowl that Krem was shooting his way, Alistair decided to play innocent. “Me? Umm... nowhere.”

A sly smile curved Isabela’s dusky lips, and her gaze fell poignantly to the half-erection that was still tenting Alistair’s pants five minutes later. “Nowhere sounds like a lot of fun. Did anyone else come?” she asked. Emphasis on the _come._

Alistair blushed.

Isabela lifted one eyebrow in interest. But, before she could interrogate him, a large crash turned all heads.

In the center of the room, Solas stood, expression serene, a cocktail glass uplifted in one hand, the other casually in his pocket. Before him, in an aggressive stance, fists clenched, was Cullen.

A hush had fallen over the room, so even from his distance, Alistair could hear Solas’ voice clearly. “I didn’t promise you anything, Cullen,” he said mildly. “I don’t make promises lightly. I merely said that I would think about it.”

Hands still clenched, Cullen took a step forward. For a second, Alistair wondered if the man were going to become violent. “You liar!”

Nonplussed, Solas just heaved a small sigh. “I feel like name-calling is unnecessary.”

The cords in Cullen’s neck jumped, his face flushed, as the anger sloshed out of his mouth. “You know what I feel is unnecessary?” He snorted. “You fucking Fenris behind my back!”

At this, Solas’ eyes narrowed slightly, his ears lowering like an angry cat’s. “No one owns anyone here,” he said, his voice remaining calm. Unconcerned again, he took a long sip from the drink in his hand as his eyes swept over Cullen. “Now,” he said with finality, “you’ve had too much to drink. It’s time for you to leave. Shall I call the Iron Bull to help you get home?”

Cullen stared at him for a moment, as if trying to process the fact that he’d just been dismissed. Then his entire body seemed to crumble as realization sank in. His words, though whispered, somehow managed to carry across the room. “Fuck you, Solas. Fuck you.”

Indifferent, Solas sipped his drink.

Suddenly, Cole appeared at Cullen side. Whispered something into his ear. Then the ghostly boy began leading the defeated man towards the exit. A pale hand in a pocket, then the briefest of contact, then Cullen was in the elevator, going down.

“Did you see that?” Alistair murmured to the others.

The angels and the bartender eyed him with confusion. “See what?” Krem asked.

Just for an instant, Alistair had thought he’d seen a little bottle flashing blue, and he’d recalled Cole’s words once again: _He is quiet, behind the noise. The little bottle makes him shake, but he tests the chains._

Had Cole meant Fenris? Or Cullen? Alistair wasn’t sure – he only knew that somehow, it felt dreadfully important. Except that – when he considered trying to explain it – it all sounded so silly.

“Ah, never mind,” he said.

 


	6. Tearing Down the Veil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! Of course there's a little more Alistair/Zevran for you. Also, as you may have guessed from the title, Solas is up to something...
> 
> I actually had a lot fun writing this story. Thanks for reading it, and I hope you enjoyed it! <3

The name of the film was _Couch._

Solas had set up the camera, on a tripod, facing the red couch – the same one where Alistair and Zevran had performed earlier. Or, rather, Solas had ordered the Iron Bull to set up the camera, then he had bid Krem Darling and Cassandra Ultra Violent to sit upon it.

Krem, chewing thuggishly on a toothpick, shot Solas a challenging look. “And do what, exactly?”

Solas reached up. Tugged his wig back into place from where it had slipped down over the black plastic frames of his geek-chic glasses. “You may do whatever you please.”

Krem and Cassandra glanced at each other. Then, after a moment of manly preening, they postured in front of the camera – Krem leaning back against the sofa, arms and legs splayed, while Cassandra, looking gangster tough beneath a snappy short-brimmed hat, did their own manspreading.

They looked beautiful and oh so cool.

Watching curiously from the small crowd at the sidelines, Alistair was a bit perplexed. He’d come to the Factory with the angels as per Solas’ request in order to film, not knowing what to expect. There’d been no explanation of his role, much less a script. Apparently, Solas thought scripts were an unnecessary hindrance.

For a while, the actors just sat on the couch. Then Cassandra made a small noise of disgust. “Really, Solas,” they huffed. “I can’t think of anyone who would wish to watch a film in which nothing happens.”

Krem laughed softly. “Then don’t do nothing.”

As if taking his words as a challenge, Cassandra gave the room a defiant glare. “Fine. I shall.”

Amused, Alistair watched as Cassandra climbed to their feet, then climbed up onto the couch next to Krem. Then, like a hyperactive three-year-old, they began to jump up and down. The ancient springs of the couch creaked ominously.

A few moments later, Cassandra climbed down.

“Cut,” Solas said. “Next.”

Fenris sat on the sofa next. For a moment, he just stared into the camera, filtering his fingers slowly through his bleach white hair and letting the strands fall back down again. Then, after exchanging a glance with Solas, Fenris fixed his gaze at a point just beyond the camera, at Cullen. As he continued to stare at the blond, he popped open the button on his jeans, slid down the zipper and then slid his hand inside.

“Oh my,” Merrill murmured. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

Beside her, Isabela gave her hand a squeeze. “Kind of hot, if you ask me.”

Alistair swallowed hard. Vaguely uncomfortable, he wanted to disagree with Isabela, but he found it difficult to tear his eyes away from Fenris. For a moment all he could do was stare as Fenris’ hand continued to move inside his pants, his head thrown back against the couch, his chest rising and falling faster with his quickening breath.

Eventually Alistair did manage to look away. First he glanced at Cullen, whose face was as red as a beet, then at Solas, upon whose lips ghosted a small, almost imperceptible smirk. At that moment he realized – for some reason unfathomable to him – that Fenris and Solas must have planned this.

His hand moving faster now, Fenris arched his back, eyes shut, as he panted and moaned his way through his peak. His body had been completely covered, and yet, there had been something wickedly erotic about watching him get himself off in front of the camera.

Fenris’ act set the tone for the scenes that followed.

Anders and Hawke got right down to business. Shucking clothing left and right, they kissed and touched each other, furious caresses and lapping tongues until both of them were sated. Grinning afterwards, they casually scooped up their clothes and picked their way naked through the crowd.

Isabela and Merrill went next. Although shy at first, Merrill was eventually coaxed into undressing on the couch. After many sweet kisses, Merrill seemed to forget about the audience. In no time, she was astride Isabela’s ample hips, riding Isabela’s strapped-on dick, her pretty breasts bouncing as her mouth formed an “O.”

Next came Cullen and Bull. If they’d come to an agreement beforehand, Alistair didn’t know, but they didn’t speak. Instead, they put on a show. Bull’s large hands practically ripped Cullen right out of his clothes, then folded his body into various positions on the couch. Cullen on his hands and knees, grunting as Bull first penetrated him with his massive cock from behind. Muscles flexing everywhere, their bodies soon slick with sweat, Cullen crying out as he jerked himself off to completion with Bull buried deep in his body, followed by Bull coming across his chest.

After watching these depraved acts for an hour, Alistair had never been so hard.

Sounding almost bored, Solas snapped his fingers. “Alistair. Zevran. Your turn.”

Alistair gulped. A part of him wanted to back out now, while another part sizzled with anticipation, even though not everyone had performed a sexual act – most notably the art critic, Dorian Pavus, who had sat elegantly upon the couch, reading a book for nearly a full ten minutes, and Sera, who had made a series of goofy faces at the camera.

Still, the atmosphere was steeped with sex, the smell of it in the air, and when Zevran stepped up to him, Alistair felt that strange prickling at the bottom of his stomach, as his heart flipped like a Chinese acrobat.

Eyes like molten amber. Alistair felt the heat of the elf’s hungry gaze on his face, then felt the brush of Zevran’s gaze up and down the erection he’d been desperately trying to hide since Solas called their names.

A smile snaked across the elf’s lips. He tilted his own hips, drawing attention to his own erection, clearly outlined in the tight pants he wore. “My dear Alistair,” he murmured, all sexy drawl hot as summer, “I see I’m not the only one who found the previous performances... arousing.” Reaching out, he ghosted a hand across Alistair’s shoulder, then let it rest lightly on Alistair’s neck. “Perhaps there is something you’d like me to do to alleviate your current state.”

Zevran’s hand was so hot against his skin, all of which was now tingling. Steeling himself against his own nerves on fire, Alistair forced himself to tear his eyes away from those pleasing, curving lips to meet Zevran’s gaze. Although afraid to say yes to Zevran’s offer, Alistair had never wanted anything more in his life.

He swallowed hard. Voice husky, shaking, as he forced out a reply. “I think... that it would be best if I put myself entirely in your hands.”

The sultry burn in Zevran’s eyes intensified as his fingers began to lightly stroke Alistair’s neck. “I assure you that you won’t regret a single moment of it.”

Surrendering completely, Alistair let Zevran draw him down to the couch.

There were long, languid kisses. Bodies crushed together. Zevran’s hands everywhere – trailing down Alistair’s spine, dancing across his chest, his hips, kneading the muscles of his ass, and stroking his cock. Alistair’s hands all full of Zevran’s silky hair as the elf teased nipples first with soft slip of tongue then dangerous nip of teeth. Lips on collarbone, fingers tracing across ribs rising with heated breath and muscles growing tense. Slide of cock against cock through the fabric of their pants, then through the thin cotton of underwear, then all skin bared.

The frayed red velvet of the couch was warm against Alistair’s back as Zevran took both of their pricks into his oiled fist, jerking both of them off to the beat of an unheard drum.

With his other oiled hand, Zevran reached behind to finger himself.

Alistair made an animal sort of sound – half-moan, half-low.

Blond hair tickled Alistair’s cheek as Zevran leaned down, offering his tongue upon which to suck. Greedily, Alistair latched on to Zevran’s tongue, sharing his breath as he sucked for all he was worth. All too soon, Zevran was releasing him. As Alistair sat up to protest, Zevran turned around. Holding on to the arm of the couch with both hands, he positioned himself so that he was on his knees, chest down, ass up in the air.

Smiling slyly, Zevran looked at Alistair over his shoulder. “I think, my dear friend, that it is time you lost that pesky virginity of yours,” he drawled. “And, for this purpose, I am all yours.”

Almost in awe, Alistair scrambled up. For a moment, he just stared at the vision of sex on offer before him. Then, taking his iron rod in hand, Alistair scooted forward, then guided himself towards the elf’s well-oiled entrance.

His cock slid readily into Zevran’s hole as if their parts had been made to be assembled, like two pieces of a jigsaw.

_Maker’s breath..._

Zevran, voice reed-thin, spoke over his shoulder again. “Alistair... move... please...”

Alistair didn’t need to be asked twice. Tilting his hips, he began to rock against Zevran, starting with tentatively slow and shallow thrusts, until, at Zevran’s urging, Alistair was eventually ramming in deeper and harder.

It was true he was a virgin. Of course he had imagined what sex was like many times, still he hadn’t expected it to feel quite like this. Like he’d been asleep for his entire life, and only now, as he continued to vigorously fuck the writhing elf below him, was he finally awake. A sleepwalker come to life.

Seizing Zevran, Alistair then flipped him over so that the elf was now on his back. Throwing Zevran’s legs over his shoulders, Alistair angled himself and plunged back in. His reward? Being able to see Zevran’s delicious quiver, and the usual mask he wore gone, leaving only ecstasy, as he took himself in his fist, stroking in time to Alistair’s deeply penetrating thrusts.

As Alistair came inside him, Zevran’s spend spattered Alistair, himself, and the couch.

Breathless, Alistair stared down into Zevran’s eyes. In that moment, he wasn’t thinking about whether this was fantasy love or reality love. In that moment, he wasn’t thinking about much of anything other than Zevran, as if the elf were the only thing in the world that existed.

At least until a voice rang out.

“Cut!” Solas shouted. “That will be a wrap. And, Bull? Please clean up the couch.”

\---------------------------------

It was late the following Sunday afternoon when the doorbell rang.

Isabela lowered her newspaper and the women exchanged a look.

Fretting, Merrill toyed with the knitting in her lap. “I’m not expecting any company. Are you, Bela?”

“Alistair?” Isabela drawled from her position on the lounge. “Be a darling and get that, will you?”

Having set aside the most recent copy of _The Face,_ Alistair was already rising from the sofa. “Of course.”

At the door was a dwarf with an odd crossbow slung across his back, a heavily-embellished coat, and an impressive amount of reddish chest hair.

“Maker!” Alistair cried out. He didn’t know what the dwarf was doing here. Clearly he had come to finish what he’d started. Heart in throat, Alistair grabbed onto the door, intending to slam it in the dwarf’s face. Except, before he could swing the door all the way shut, the dwarf had shouldered his way through the crack, and into the apartment.

Glaring up at Alistair, the dwarf cracked his knuckles.

Fearing for his life, Alistair took a step back. Would it be cowardly of him to call the ladies for help? He had no doubts that Isabela, at least, could handle herself in a fight.

Fortunately, he heard the patter of bare feet behind him, and then both Isabela and Merrill were by his side.

Merrill clung to his arm, peering up into his face. “We heard you shout!” she exclaimed. “Are you all right?” She blinked up at him with concern for a moment before her eye caught on the intruder. “Oh! Hello, Varric.”

Varric reached up a hand to smooth down the lapels of his extravagant coat. “Hello, Daisy. Rivaini. You asked me to stop by... well, consider your wish granted.”

Alistair, who had edged his way behind Isabela, now peeped over her shoulder, keeping his gaze fixed on the dwarf. “You mean you invited him _here?”_

Varric sniffed as he stroked his lapels again. “I’ve had warmer welcomes from a meat locker.”

“Oh, dear,” Merrill fretted. “You’re right, we’re being very rude. Would you like to come in an have a cup of tea?”

Isabela snorted softly with amusement. “Well, Varric, perhaps if you and your cronies hadn’t beaten and robbed our friend, he would have been much happier to see you.”

“Good point, Rivaini.” To Merrill he said, “Thanks for the offer, but I have some business to take care of. I just came to see Blondie here.”

Alistair blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah,” he said, reaching into the pocket of his coat. “You can thank these two delightful ladies here for convincing me to come. And bring you this.”

Dangling from his fingers, Alistair’s mother’s amulet.

Alistair felt a melange of emotions bubbling up inside him as he accepted the necklace from Varric. “I...” he began, the words catching in his throat, “I... never thought I’d see this again. I just...” Fighting back his tears, he looked at his robber with genuine gratitude. “Thank you for returning it.”

Varric cleared his throat, looking sheepish. “Yes, well, no need to make a big deal out of it.”

Merrill beamed up at Alistair. “See? I told you that Varric is a good man,” she said. To the dwarf, she added, “If there’s any way we can repay your kindness...”

In Varric’s eyes, there was a momentarily glint of shrewdness. Then he just waved a pragmatic hand. “No, but... word around town is that the kid here has some talent as an actor. I know you’ve been working for Chuckles, but I have a friend, Ruffles, who’s doing a show on Broadway. She’s having some trouble finding the right actor for the male lead. She wants some fresh blood, and from what’s she’s told me, Blondie here would fit the part. Interested?”

Isabela arched one slender brow. “Varric, you useful devil,” she said with a laugh. “Of course he’s interested.”

Merrill squealed and clapped her hands. “Broadway! Alistair! How wonderful!”

Varric held up both hands. “I’m not promising you a role,” he said, then reached into his pocket again to withdraw a slip of paper. “However, I can promise you an audition. Here. This is her card. Just call her and tell her I sent you.”

With a tentative hand, Alistair reached out to take the card. For a moment he just stared at the name on it: _Josephine Cherette Montilyet._ A name he recognized as belonging to one of the greatest and most important stage directors in Kirkwall. It felt as if he’d just won the lottery.

Were his dreams finally coming true?

As he began to bumble his way through his heartfelt gratitude, Varric just cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry about it, kid,” he said. “But if you really want to do me a favor, snag me an invite to the next happening at the Factory. No one knows what it means, but everyone in Kirkwall is talking about how Chuckles is going to tear down the veil.”

\-----------------------------------

It seemed to Alistair that everyone who was anyone in Kirkwall had turned out for the happening that Solas had named “Tearing Down the Veil.”

Everyone wore their finery – though that definition changed depending on the person, such as Bull in full Leather Daddy mode, Cassandra dressed up in full Pimp drag, or Merrill dolled up like a Disney Princess, accompanied by Isabela in full pirate gear, complete with a feather in her tri-cornered cap and a stuffed parrot sewn to one shoulder that may have once been alive. Still, there were fine tailored suits and sparkly ballgowns everywhere, red-carpet ready.

Throughout the space, lights spun, twinkling, reflected in bright circles off the tin foil. Alcohol flowed freely into cocktail and champagne glasses filled with ripe raspberries, and drugs of all sorts passed from hand to nose, hand to mouth, in every dark nook of the space.

“So, I heard a rumor,” Leliana said, all lavender silk and white mink, as she leaned against Alistair’s arm. “A little bird told me that you had an audition this morning. With _the_ Josephine Montilyet.”

At her side, Dorian smiled. He was wearing a rather plain black suit that was elegant in its simplicity, but which probably cost more than all of Alistair’s possessions combined. “Really?” he chimed in with unbridled enthusiasm. “Well done! How did it go?”

Alistair replayed his audition in his mind for the twentieth time that day. He thought he’d done well... “Umm... she said she would be in touch.”

Patting his arm, Leliana smiled. “That’s quite good news, then. If Josie didn’t like you, she would have sent you off straight away.”

_Josie?_ Alistair wondered how well Leliana and Miss Montilyet knew each other. “I hope you’re right.”

“Leliana usually is,” Dorian assured him. Lifting his cocktail glass, he cocked his head, giving Alistair a curious look. “However, one thing that our dear Leliana’s sources have been unable to discover is the meaning of this happening. No one seems to know anything. I don’t suppose you’ve been privy to any insider information?”

Alistair shook his head. Honestly, he replied, “No. I’m just as in the dark as you are.”

Leliana sighed. “Pity,” she said. “Though I suppose we’ll all find out soon enough.”

“True,” Dorian agreed. Then he smiled at Alistair again. “Meanwhile... have you tried the cheese?”

Perhaps Alistair’s secret love of cheese had been _too_ secret, for no one had yet informed him that not only was there cheese, but that there was an entire table devoted to a variety of his favorite dairy product imported from every single region of Thedas.

There was even his favorite – a soft goat’s milk cheese from the Anderfells. Smearing a generous amount on a cracker, he then jammed it into his mouth, savoring it. At least a familiar voice broke into his cheese-induced reverie.

A dark purr vibrated into his ear. “You know, my friend... I have seen you make that expression only one time before. In Solas’ most recent film.”

Nearly choking, Alistair whirled around. Before him stood Zevran, encased in a rich, velvety dark green suit tailored to fit him like a glove, open shirt, no tie – an outfit that suited him perfectly. Upon his face, a knowing look and a sweep of glitter that followed the curving tattoo that ran down his cheek.

Forgetting his manners for a moment, Alistair mumbled with his mouth half-full. “You’ve seen _Couch?”_

A small smile played upon the elf’s pleasing mouth. “Yes, I was present during the editing. If by editing, one means Bull slapping on a title and some credits.”

Alistair swallowed, once, twice, grateful that the cracker didn’t stick in his throat. “I’m surprised that he’s not playing the film here. Now.”

Zevran gave a little lilting shrug. “According to Fenris, his lover isn’t showing the film because he didn’t want any distractions when he tears down the veil.”

Absentmindedly, Alistair wiped the crumbs from his lips with a napkin he picked up from the table. “Then... you know what’s going to happen tonight?”

The elf shook his head. “No. Not even Fenris knows what this veil is. My best guess is that it’s some sort of metaphor – Solas does like those, yes? So, for everyone, it is quite the mystery.” Pausing, Zevran let his gaze sweep up and down Alistair. “Another great mystery is why you are still standing here talking to me. Usually, whenever I approach you and there’s no camera, you run away.”

Alistair swallowed hard again, only this time because his heart had jumped up in his throat. In his stomach, he felt that strange, prickling sensation that he always felt whenever Zevran was near. “I... uh... I’ve decided not to run away anymore.”

At those words, Zevran looked at him with a hint of surprise. Then, his face practically lit up. Smiling, he stepped closer and let his hand fall lightly upon Alistair’s shoulder. “If that is true, then you have made me a very happy man.”

The prickling sensation in his stomach now turned into a swarm of buzzing bees. Was this what love felt like? Or was it something else? Alistair had never been in love before and couldn’t tell.

Still the doubts nagged at him. “Can I ask you something?”

Zevran laughed softly. “Of course.”

“Is this just... is it... well, is it just fantasy love?” he sputtered out. “Or is it reality love?”  
This time, Zevran didn’t laugh. Instead, his expression was profound as he seemed to consider Alistair’s question most seriously. Then, smiling gently, he let his hand trail down from Alistair’s shoulder, over his arm, until he held Alistair’s hand in his own. On pins and needles, Alistair waited for Zevran’s answer, until he was sure that the anticipation would make his heart burst.

Zevran opened his mouth to answer...

...and then the _happening_ happened.

A sound like a thunderclap boomed through the room. Above their heads a vortex of swirling sickly green light suddenly appeared like magic. And beneath it all, with a staff in one hand, stance steady and arms spread open, stood Solas, wearing an extravagantly primal necklace of bone, and a long cloak of raggedy fur, with a wolf’s snarling head for a hood.

A hush had fallen across the room.

Flashes like lightning burst from the vortex of green light above.

Alistair marveled at it all. Tried to figure by what ingenious contraption Solas had managed to put on this show. Little did he know that the Veil that kept them all sealed safely in what they called reality was about to be rent asunder.

As Cole had predicted, the world was about to end.

All Alistair knew was that Zevran was still holding his hand in the dark, and that the end of the world was _pretty._

The vortex widened, tilting and spinning like a runaway carousel ride.

Another sound reverberated through the Factory, like the sound of fabric being violently ripped down the seams.

Then, as if out of nowhere, Cullen was pushing through the crowd towards Solas. His hair and clothes disheveled, his face pale, and his pupils blown open wide like a man at the peak of sexual arousal, or in the throes of a Lyrium rush.

He staggered to a halt in the center of the room. Raised his arm and pointed at the Dread Wolf.

In Cullen’s hand, a gun.

“Solas!” he screamed. “You fucking bastard!”

He quickly shot three times in succession.

The first shot went wide, sending up splinters as it struck the floor.

The second went wider still, singeing the sleeve of Sera’s kimono as it whizzed between her and Krem, before exploding brick into dust.

But the third shot hit its target.

In a cloud of fur, Solas was blown down to the floor.

Chaos erupted as everyone began to shout, stampeding towards the door.

Arm still extended, Cullen turned to his next target. The man who happened to fall into line with his viewfinder was the art critic, Dorian Pavus.

Cullen pulled the trigger.

With a screech, Dorian fell.

It was all happening so fast. Horrified at the scene unfolding before them, Alistair grabbed onto Zevran’s sleeve, his ears still ringing from the blasts. “Maker’s breath! We must do something!”  
Eyes wide, Zevran stared at him. “If by ‘something’ you mean ‘run before Cullen kills us all,’ then I agree with you completely!”

“People are getting hurt!”Alistair insisted. “We can’t just run away!”

Zevran stared at Alistair for another moment. Then his expression shifted. “Very well, but that man is not in his right mind. I don’t think ‘listening to reason’ is high on his current list of priorities. But perhaps if we –” Turning his head, Zevran trailed off suddenly. “Wait! Fenris!”

Alistair turned in time to see Fenris. Grim with determination, the elf strode straight up to Cullen, flames of anger setting his eyes aglow in the dim light. Cullen, spinning, pressed the barrel of his gun to the center of Fenris’ chest.

_Oh no,_ Alistair thought with horror at the same time that Krem tried to shout a warning.

Krem’s warning came far too late.

With glee, Cullen pulled the trigger.

_Clack._

Everyone froze.

Seemingly confused by the lack of another blast, Cullen pulled back his gun. He stared at it for a moment. Then he popped open the chamber, and peered inside.

Alistair was no expert on guns, but he knew that most of them held at least six bullets. Cullen had fired four times. Had the gun jammed?

Fenris was the next person to unfreeze. Curling his hand into a fist, he then clocked Cullen hard across the jaw, knocking the madman down.

From the remaining crowd, Bull and Krem hurried to where Solas had fallen.

Bull crouched down over the body of his boss. “He’s still alive!” he boomed to the room. “Krem – call an ambulance!”

On pins and needles again, Alistair could only breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank the Maker!”

From nearby, an indignant voice filtered up. “Help for the art critic, please!” he shouted. _“Vishante kaffas,_ what a perfect way to ruin a good suit!”

Bull leaned over to where Dorian had fallen. After a quick assessment of Dorian’s injury, he turned back to Krem. “Make that _two_ ambulances.”

As Alistair tried to make sense of what had just happened, Merrill and Isabela rushed over to him. In both of their expressions, worry. “Are you all right, Alistair? Zevran?”

Looking thoughtful, Zevran rubbed at his chin. “We’re fine,” he reassured her. “Except I am not certain if the happening was successful or not.”

Suddenly Alistair recalled Cole’s other words. _Rage becomes redemption. It tastes like ashes. But he doesn’t know he’s destined to save the world._

Had Cullen just saved the world? Or was that just the ravings of another lunatic?

“Who knows?” Isabela says. “Either way, it certainly wasn’t a boring night.”

“Everyone’s alive,” Alistair said, wearily. “That’s what matters.”

“The art critic is bleeding!” Dorian shouted out again from the floor. “Could someone please put some pressure on this wound? I’m too pretty to die!”

With a sigh, Krem accepted a bar towel from Anders, then applied pressure to the bullet wound in Dorian’s shoulder.

“It’s true,” Isabela remarked. “That man _is_ too pretty to die.”

In the distance, the wail of a siren, growing steadily louder. It drowned out whatever words Solas was leaning up to whisper in Bull’s ear.

Suddenly, Alistair felt very tired. “Now what?”

As Zevran shifted, Alistair felt the elf’s fingers brush against his. When their gazes met, he saw that Zevran’s eyes were smiling. “If I may make a suggestion... why don’t we go back to your place?”

Alistair felt himself getting a bit lost in those honey eyes. Thinking, _This is dangerous._ As much as he wanted to say yes, he still didn’t know exactly what he was getting himself into. He had to _know._ “You didn’t answer my question.”

“You mean about fantasy love and reality love?” he asked. When Alistair nodded, Zevran pursed his lips, thoughtful again. After a moment, he gave Alistair the long-awaited for answer.

“I think,” Zevran said with a sugary grin, “that I can promise you both.”

 


End file.
